


The Rise and Fall

by irlangel, toules



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Autistic Will Graham, Cannibalism, Child Death, F/F, F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Disintegration, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow To Update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:25:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8440246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irlangel/pseuds/irlangel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/toules/pseuds/toules
Summary: Wanted serial killer and renowned psychiatrist Hannah Lecter is recruited by the head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit at the F.B.I to construct a profile on a killer known only as the Chesapeake Ripper. Self-suffering detective Willow Graham's ability to empathize with murderers interests Lecter, who will do anything she can to get inside Graham's head. But the world doesn't stop for their budding romance as their adopted son struggles to lead a normal life again, a journalist weasels his way into their personal life, and numerous killers from sadistic twins to a traumatized film developer pose obstacles in their path to happiness.The entirety of NBC's Hannibal sex swapped and altered with more cases, characters, and deaths from the books and movies. Hannibal with more lesbians and sadness, basically.





	1. L'Apéritif

**Author's Note:**

> My gf (@toules) and I are working really hard on this fic and we'd love to hear any feedback you have for us!!
> 
> We decided to incorporate a lot from every Hannibal Lecter-based series (books, movies, TV show), but that doesn't mean you have to be as well versed as we are in the fandoms! Most of it is based on the show as far as characters and their interactions go, but we tweaked some deaths and added some cases we liked from the books and the movies so it isn't just like reading a show you've already watched. In the first couple of chapters we'll stick to the TV show plot for the most part, but afterwards we'll start taking more liberty in our writing.
> 
> With that being said, I'll drop notes here before each chapter regarding any triggers, frequently asked questions, or just general ramblings.
> 
> So here's Hannibal, now with more lesbians and sadness! All of Bryan Fuller's mistakes are fixed, Francis Dolarhyde actually has a backstory and our plot isn't centered solely around Hannah Lecter and Willow Graham's romance.
> 
> Names:  
> Will Graham - Willow Graham  
> Hannibal Lecter - Hannah Lecter  
> Abigail Hobbs - Abraham Hobbs  
> Alana Bloom - Alan Bloom  
> Clarice Starling - Clarence Starling  
> Jack Crawford - Jacqueline Crawford  
> Bedelia Du Maurier - Bedilayn Du Maurier  
> Freddie Lounds - Freddy Lounds  
> Mason Verger - Macy Verger  
> Margot Verger - Marco Verger
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE, MURDER, BRIEF CANNIBALISM, GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF CORPSES, AND HARM AGAINST A CHILD (Abraham is 17, but child trauma bothers me to the point where I can't write scenes with him being harmed and have to have someone else do it. Not everyone is like this and I know it may be a factor of 'Well he's a teenager so it isn't as bothersome', but I still thought I would mention it just in case!!)

**F.B.I ACADEMY, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

“Everyone has thought of killing someone one way or another.”

 

Professor Willow Graham stands at the front of the dark lecture hall, scanning her students over before clicking a button on the remote in her left hand to trigger the next slide. She turns her attention to the wall behind her, her silhouette illuminated by the projection of a blonde woman’s corpse lying on blood stained carpet. She duly notes the sounds of shuffling and soft chatter from her students, and she glances over her shoulder as a warning and the room goes silent once more, save for the low hum of the projector.

 

“Be it by your own hand, or the hand of God.”

 

_Dozens of officers litter the yard outside, and when Willow looks out the front window she can see one of the cops taping the perimeter. Red and blue lights slide over the off-white wall by the window, glaring off her glasses. She steps away and returns to the scene, the smell of blood making her light-headed when it hits her. She struggles not to stumble, heart pounding in her ears when the crime scene photographers snap photos of the blood stains, bright white flashing and making her ears ring._

 

_A folder is passed to her and she takes it with a firm grip, opening it and staring at the photos of the corpses, now moved to the lab for testing. She breathes slowly through her nose, picking up the photo of the wife’s body and examining it with scrutiny._

 

_Willow looks up from the folder and closes her eyes, and a pendulum begins to swing bright behind her eyelids._

 

_She opens her eyes and approaches the door and turns the knob, stepping outside, and she’s met with complete silence aside from crickets chirping and toads croaking in the neighborhood. Her pace is slow and steady when she steps down into the grass, skin chilled beneath her green flannel and navy F.B.I windbreaker in the cool April night air._

 

_The pendulum begins to snap rhythmically back and forth in front of her eyes, clearing the yard of the squad cars and officers. The front door clicks shut, the busted lock and broken wood from being kicked in returning to their original state. When the pendulum stops, she's alone and standing in the middle of the road across from the house, street light behind her flickering in time with her fast heartbeat._

 

_She turns and cuts through the yard, hurrying up the porch steps and kicking the door twice with enough force to break the wood around the lock. When the broken door swings open with the second kick, she steps inside and takes her handgun out of its holster. Thomas Marlow runs down the stairs, taking two steps at a time to see what the commotion is. The home security system on the wall by the stairs blares a repetitive rhythm of beeps, but it’s drowned out by the sound of her gun firing twice._

 

_“I shoot Mr. Marlow twice. I sever his jugulars and carotids with precision. He will die watching me take what is his.” She rolls her shoulders and drops her gun back to her side, taking a step back when the man’s body rolls down the stairs and lands at her feet. She watches the light fade from his eyes with a flat expression._

 

_“This is my design.”_

 

_When she turns around, she watches Mrs. Marlow frantically push the panic button on the security system, but Willow’s faster and shoots her through the middle of her throat. She narrowly misses her jugular and blood splatters the security system as the woman falls down, smearing her bloody left hand down the wall as she goes, curling her fingers towards the wall so she scratches long nails down it. She expels the last of her energy with that motion and lies flat on her back, blood pumping steadily out of her wound and pooling around her head._

 

 _“I shoot Mrs. Marlow expertly through the neck. This is not a fatal wound. The bullet misses every artery. She is paralyzed by the time she hits the floor, which doesn’t mean she can’t feel pain… It just means she can’t do anything about it.” She pauses and inhales deeply while letting the power she feels set in, shuddering beneath the weight of her actions._ _“This is my design.”_

 

_Willow scowls at the ringing security system, pressing the disarm button and finally ending the obnoxious beeping. The black home phone on the coffee table behind her immediately starts ringing and she snaps out of it, looking around where she’s stood right by one of the number markers on the pool of blood on the carpet. She looks at the blood splattered security system and then around to the silent phone behind her._

 

_“I need the incident report from DDT Security.”_

 

_Once Willow has the report in hand, she tucks a thick strand of curly brown hair behind her ear and squints at it, pursing her lips as she thinks._

 

_“This was recorded as a false alarm,” She begins slowly, looking up at another investigator from across the room. “There was a false alarm last week too. He tapped their phone.”_

 

_Willow holds the plastic phone in one hand and her own cellphone in the other, tapping buttons on her phone to play recordings of the false alarm last week. It’s as if Theresa Marlow is safe, apologizing for setting off the alarm, and Willow turns her head to watch the blood ooze from the gaping hole in her throat._

 

_“And this is where it gets truly horrifying for Mrs. Marlow.”_

 

“Why did Mrs. Marlow deserve this? Tell me your design. Show me who _you_ are.” The professor concludes her lesson with that, standing from where she’d been leaned on her desk to turn off the projector. Her gaze shifts to the door where a tall, stocky woman wearing an austere gaze stands.

 

“Your essays are due on Monday. Class dismissed.”

 

The trainees file out of the lecture hall, a few of them sending smitten glances over their shoulders. Willow, unaffected, doesn't care enough to notice even as she warns her students.

 

“The sad, dull truth of these crimes is that they can ordinarily be narrowed down to a male’s need to control. However, I expect a higher level of scrutiny from all of you.”

 

When the last of her students file out of the room, she puts her tortoiseshell framed glasses that were left forgotten on her desk back on as Jacqueline Crawford approaches, nudging the frames down so the rims shield herself from making direct eye contact.

 

“Ms. Graham,” Jacqueline greets, holding her hand out. Willow shakes it loosely despite the other woman’s firm grip, and busies herself packing up her things as soon as her hand is free. “I’m Special Agent Jacqueline Crawford, I lead the Behavioral Sciences unit.”

 

Willow nods, her gaze locked on the laptop she’s shoving into her brown messenger bag as she speaks. “We’ve met.”

 

“You and I had a disagreement about the museum when we opened it.”

 

“I disagreed with what you chose to name it. The Evil Minds Research Museum? It’s a little gaudy, Jacqueline.”

 

“So, you’ve hitched your horse to a teaching post,” Jacqueline says with a low, warm chuckle, returning Willow’s directness with a personal comment of her own, “I understand it’s not easy for you to be sociable.”

 

“I’m just talking at them, I don’t listen to them. It isn’t social.” Willow mutters, slowly picking up on Jacqueline’s way of speaking. Always in someone else’s head, she can hardly remember what her own way of speaking sounds like.

 

“And where do you fall on the spectrum, Ms. Graham?”

 

“My horse is hitched to a post closer to Asperger’s or autism than narcissism or sociopathy.”

 

“Yet you still empathize with narcissists and sociopaths.”

 

Exasperated, Willow lets out a breathy laugh and shakes her head to get the hair out of her face, looking up at the tall ceiling of the lecture hall. “I can empathize with anyone. Less to do with personality disorders and more to do with an… active imagination.”

 

Jacqueline’s quiet for a moment at that, watching the tense woman pack up her things. When she’s zipping up her bag and hanging the strap over one shoulder, Jacqueline braces her hands on Willow’s desk and leans forward, her loud voice echoing in the vast, empty room.

 

“May I borrow your imagination?”

 

“Eight boys from eight different Minnesota high schools abducted in the last eight months.”

 

Jacqueline circles her office, stopping behind her desk and looking over the vast evidence board hung up over two short bookshelves (mostly consisting of light reads, Willow assumes Jacqueline’s job is boring most days). She stuffs her hands in the pockets of her black slacks and Willow notes the glint of her diamond wedding ring before it disappears into the cotton pants.

 

“I thought there were seven.”

 

“There were.”

 

“Did you mark the eighth?”

 

Amused, Jacqueline turns to face her again, tilting her head to the side to gesture to the board behind her. Willow’s gaze trails up to where a brunet boy’s photo is tacked onto the corkboard.

 

“About three minutes before I walked into your lecture hall.”

 

Willow returns her attention to her boss, watching her move to one side of the room to pour herself a cup of coffee in a white mug. She mutters a soft rejection when she’s offered one, leaning back in her chair and squinting in thought.

 

“And you’re calling these ‘abductions’ because there’s no bodies.”

 

“Yep,” She begins, coming back around her desk to have a seat in her squeaky office chair, setting her mug down on top of forgotten paperwork. “No bodies, no parts of bodies, nothing that comes out of bodies. Zeller and Price have very lonely swabs in used evidence kits.”

 

That earns half of a chuckle from Willow and she looks back to the board where a map of Minnesota hangs and eight circles are swirled in blue Sharpie, indicating the campuses of the schools the boys attended.

 

“All abducted on Friday, so they aren’t reported until Monday. However he’s covering his tracks, he’s taking the entire weekend to do it.”

 

“Not necessarily,” Willow says, taking the yellow manila folder that Jacqueline passes to her over her desk. She opens it to see the same junior yearbook photo that's tacked to the corkboard behind the desk, and she sets it aside to read the incident report. “The eighth?”

 

“Emil Nichols. Centennial High School in Circle Pines.”

 

Willow clicks her tongue a couple of times absent-mindedly as she sorts through the documents in the folder. She looks up once she's finished and scans over the evidence board again.

 

“They all look the same. That's... a lot of pale skin.”

 

“Same hair color. Same eye color. Roughly the same age, height, and weight. What is it about these boys?”

 

“It’s not about all of these boys, it’s about one of them.” There's a brief pause as Willow tucks the papers and photographs back into the folder and sets it back on the desk in front of her. Her chair groans when she leans back in it and she shrugs her shoulders, “Or none of them, maybe it's about one who hasn't been taken yet.”

 

Jacqueline’s silent for a beat, looking at the agent in deep thought as she weighs her options. The only sound in the room is the low hum of the fluorescent lights and soft footsteps going to and fro in the hallway outside the door.

 

“I want you to get closer to this.”

 

“I’m out of it Jacqueline, you know that. You have Bloom at Chicago University who does the exact same thing as me.”

 

“Well, that’s not really true, is it? You have a specific way of thinking about these things.”

 

“A _specific way_ of thinking.” Willow repeats, halfway appalled at Jacqueline’s words. She puffs out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Has there been a lot of discussion about my ‘way of thinking?’”

 

“You jump to conclusions you can’t explain.”

 

“The evidence _can_ explain.”

 

“Then help me find evidence.”

 

Willow’s gaze shifts back up to milquetoast boys’ yearbook photos tacked to the corkboard and she stares at Emil Nichols’ smiling face for a long moment before sighing, defeated.

 

“That may require me to be more sociable.”

 

* * *

 

**CENTENNIAL HIGH SCHOOL, CIRCLE PINES, MINNESOTA**

 

“They said he didn’t leave campus. Not alive anyways, or like, on his own violation or whatever you call it.”

 

“Volition.” Willow mutters her correction, sat back in one of the library’s uncomfortable bean bags. The teenage girl, Stephanie, regards her correction with a glance in her direction before one of the boys speaks up.

 

“Yeah, his car’s still in the parking lot. It was here all weekend. He didn’t have any plans, just go home, feed the cat, and sleep through the weekend. He had a test on Monday in our history class so-”

 

“Ugh, this is making me queasy.” One of the girls cuts him off, shuddering overdramatically for flare. Willow has a subtle reaction to that, the corner of her lips twitching upwards and her eyebrows raising in candid amusement.

 

“I know, right?”

 

Jacqueline shoots Willow a stern look from where she’s pacing the library slowly, and she makes her way back to the group upon hearing the break in the conversation.

 

“Emil Nichols didn’t just disappear into thin air between here and the parking lot on Friday. Did he ever mention anything odd happening after school? Was he ever approached by anyone suspicious to your knowledge?”

 

The boy in the group, Robert, speaks up again with a shake of his head, “I’m his- I _was_ his friend. I’ve never seen him do anything other than studying and frying eggs.”

 

“Do you know what they’re doing to the boys they take?” The squeamish girl asks, clearly unnerved by this discussion.

 

“Raping and murdering them, duh.” Stephanie replies so carelessly that it makes Jacqueline wonder what an ordinary conversation is like with her.

 

“We have no evidence of that.”

 

“Like Ted Bundy?” Robert asks, ignoring Jacqueline’s comment, suddenly interested in what Stephanie has to say instead.

 

“No,” Willow cuts them off before they can go off on their own discussion, “More like Willy Wonka. Every boy he takes is like a candy bar, and within that group is the golden ticket. We find the golden ticket, we find the killer.”

 

“It doesn’t matter. He already took someone from Centennial so we’re all safe.” Robert remarks, and Willow shoots him an indiscernible look.

“Unless you’re the golden ticket.”

 

The group falls silent and Robert looks shocked, his face falling and his shoulders tensing as he considers who might want him dead. The nervous girl starts gathering her things and she stands from her bean bag, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and muttering something about how she’s going to be late for Spanish. Willow regards her vaguely, her gaze following the girl’s blonde curls as she leaves the group. When she looks back, nobody's smiling.

 

* * *

 

**NICHOLS HOME, CIRCLE PINES, MINNESOTA**

 

“He could have just wandered off by himself. Maybe the pressure of school got to him. He could have just gotten on a bus and… and…” Mr. Nichols’ rambling slowly dissolves as he finds it harder and harder to convince himself of his own words.

 

Willow and Jacqueline sit across from the Nichols as they question them. Jacqueline’s leaned forward with her arms braced on the table, purple button up pushed up past her elbows to give off a more casual look. Willow, on the other hand, is leaned back in the dining room chair, looking out the window to her right in thought as Mrs. Nichols approaches the detectives with cups of cocoa in each hand.

 

“He looks like the others.”

 

“Your son matches the profile, yes.”

 

Mrs. Nichols, clearly drained from countless nights she’s stayed up worried about her missing son, takes a seat next to her husband. Mr. Nichols has his head in his hands and he slowly lifts his head to look at Jacqueline.

 

“Could Emil still be alive?”

 

“We have no way of knowing yet.”

 

Willow suddenly leans forward and takes her cup of cocoa in her hands, watching the steam billow over the rim before she looks up at the parents and offers an odd question.

 

“How’s the cat?”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Nichols asks, not sure how to process the sudden question from the previously silent detective.

 

“Emil was supposed to feed it after school. Did it seem off to you when you came home from work?”

 

There’s a long pause and everyone’s staring at Willow, who merely glances away and takes a sip of her drink.

 

“Must have been antsy.”

 

Finally, Mr. Nichols speaks up, unsure, “Um, I didn’t notice.”

 

Willow mulls over that for a moment as she drinks her cocoa, and as soon as the ceramic bottom of the mug hits the coaster on the table, she’s looking at Jacqueline and giving her theory.

 

“He took him from here.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“He came home, fed the cat, and he took him.”

 

Jacqueline doesn’t hesitate to take her cell phone out of her coat hanging on the back of her chair and dial. She’s moving quickly and the Nichols are trying to wrap their heads around the calamity.

 

“The Nichols house is a crime scene. Get me an ERT immediately and bring Zeller, Price, Katz, and a photographer.”

 

Willow, more gently to soothe the couple, shifts in her seat. She puts her hand on Mrs. Nichol’s shaking ones to placate her and says, as calmly as she can, “May I see your son’s room?”

 

She nods and stands, and Willow follows her as they wind through doorways and rooms to get to the stairs by the front door. Mrs. Nichols leads Willow up, her steps uneven and her body trembling at the thought of an intruder having taken Emil. Once they’re in front of one of the white doors, she reaches for the doorknob but Willow’s quick to stop her.

 

“I’ll get that.”

 

She pulls on blue latex gloves from her pocket and wearily eyes the small black cat pawing at the door, eager to get inside. Her gaze shifts to Mr. Nichols ascending the stairs, who tries to enter the room as well.

 

“The police were in here this morning-”

 

“Mr. Nichols, would you put your hands in your pockets and avoid touching anything please?”

 

“But we’ve been in and out of here all day!”

 

Willow reaches for the doorknob with a small shrug, glancing over her shoulder as she opens the door.

 

“You can hold the cat if that’s easier for you.”

 

And Mr. Nichols does as he’s told, kneeling to pick up the cat and shush her. The lights from the hallway slide over the floor and the walls as Willow opens the door, and the detective immediately notes the open window. She’s quick to flick on the light switch at her right and stares.

 

Emil Nichols lies coffin-style in his bed on top of the comforter, dressed in plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt as if he’d just gone to sleep. However, the puncture wounds under his t-shirt and his chest lacking a rise and fall are evident to Willow. Mr. Nichols fails to notice and steps forward hopefully.

 

“Emil?”

 

Willow raises a gloved hand and turns to prevent Mr. Nichols from entering the room, making eye contact with him and speaking very softly.

 

“I need you to leave the room.” She says patiently, and as the realization of the worst flashes across the father’s face, he abruptly drops the cat cradled in his arms.

 

* * *

 

**CRIME SCENE, EMIL NICHOLS’ BEDROOM, CIRCLE PINES, MINNESOTA**

 

“You’re all wired. Take a breather and come talk to us when you’ve sorted everything out. Take as long as you need, we’ll come back when you need us to.”

 

Jacqueline mutters her concern softly, patting Willow’s shoulder with her gloved hand and swiping her brown curls over her back. Willow nods and offers half a smile in response, and Jacqueline hollers to herd the ERT out of the room.

 

Willow side steps to let everyone out and waits until she hears Jacqueline close the door with a soft click to take the white bottle of Bufferin out of the pocket of her grey coat. She knocks a couple into her gloved palm and swallows them dry, twisting the cap back on and sliding the bottle back in her pocket.

 

She closes her eyes and exhales through her lips slowly, silver pendulum snapping back and forth behind her eyelids. She opens them once she’s calmed and it’s silent. No bustling of detectives outside, no police cars, no ambulances, a living boy asleep in bed. She walks towards the open window and steps outside onto the roof porch, boots scuffing the shingles and night air chilling her.

 

_She turns back and stares at her emotionless expression in the window glass, and she looks past her own tired eyes into the bedroom where Emil Nichols sleeps soundly in his bed. Willow opens the window and silently steps inside._

 

_She makes one, two, three, four steps before she’s at the bed looking over the boy._

 

_Overcome with emotion suddenly, tears well up in her eyes as she braces herself up on the bed over the teen. She bears her knee down on his chest, pushing her weight on top of him to crush his ribs while she simultaneously wraps her fingers around his throat and squeezes._

 

_Emil is immediately awoken from a deep sleep and sent into a state of terror, eyes blown wide as he tries to scream but can’t. He struggles and strains against the woman on top of him, face going red from the lack of air and blood flow. Capillaries pulse and wrinkle beneath her fingertips and tears streak his now purple cheeks._

 

_She shoves her knee into him further and with that, the headboard snaps and-_

 

“You’re Willow Graham.”

 

Willow’s jolted out of her thoughts abruptly, starting at the woman who’s stood by Emil’s body. Willow’s eyes are wide and she’s not sure what to make of this woman, but she does recognize a lab worker when she sees one.

 

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

 

“You wrote the standard monograph about time of death related to insect activity. Fascinating studies you made.”

 

Moving on, she stands up straight from where she had been leaned over examining the body and she holds up her tweezers to indicate what’s between them.

 

“Found velvet in the wounds,” She begins with a pointed nod, then, “You’re not real F.B.I.?”

 

“I’m a special investigator.”

 

“Never been F.B.I.?”

 

“Strict screening procedures-”

 

“Detect instability.” She pauses, then peeks around Willow’s side to see her holster. “Not unstable enough to not carry a gun.”

 

Jacqueline hurries in upon hearing the conversation from the hallway and points accusingly at Beverly.

 

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

 

“I found antler velvet in two of the wounds. I was looking for velvet in the others, but I was interrupted.”

 

“You interrupted _me._ ”

 

Brian Zeller steps inside and flanks Willow, putting a comforting hand on her back. “Deer and elk pin their prey and put all their weight on them to try to suffocate them. That’s how they’d kill a fox or a coyote.”

 

“Antler velvet is rich in nutrients, it actually promotes healing. He may have used it here on purpose.” Willow deduces, taking a few steps away to make a semicircle about the room to get away from the others and breathe. Jacqueline looks over at her curiously and watches the woman look out the open window.

 

“You think he was trying to heal him?”

 

“Well, he was trying to undo as much damage as he could, given that he’d already killed him.”

 

“He put him back where he found him.”

 

“Whatever he’s doing to the others he couldn’t do to Emil.”

 

“Is this his golden ticket?”

 

Willow’s quiet for a while, then, “No. This is an apology.” The word ‘apology’ gets hung in her throat and she coughs, taking off her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose to ease her headache.

 

“Does anyone have any Bufferin?”

 

* * *

 

**QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

Willow stares blankly as she drives, hypnotized by the pavement unfurling ahead of her. Her headlights reflect off of something moving in the distance and she squints over her steering wheel and slows down significantly as she pulls up beside the dog. No collar and matted fur, the German Shepherd trots down the side of the road with determination. He barely notices Willow rolling down her window and pulling to a stop ahead of him.

 

“Hello.”

 

Upon seeing her stop, the dog turns and begins to walk in the opposite direction. In spite of her exhausted state, Willow still wills herself to make a u-turn and follow the dog. She double checks that there are no cars coming, as if there would be at two in the morning on a back road, and blocks the road police style. She gets out and whistles to try to get the dog to come to her, but he just walks around her car and continues on down the road.

 

Defeated, she opens the car door again and reaches across the console to get her wallet out of her coat she’d tossed in the passenger seat haphazardly. She closes the door with her hip and jogs across the street to the dimly lit gas station.

 

The bell on the door rings when she opens it and the cashier stationed at the counter gives her a half-hearted greeting. Under the horrible glare of cost-effective fluorescent lights, Willow slaps a plastic bag of beef jerky and a box of Bufferin on the counter. The cashier rings her up and she hands him a ten dollar bill. The tax on the items leaves her a penny short and she heaves a sigh, pulling a quarter out of her wallet and begrudgingly telling him to keep the extra twenty-four cents.

 

She leaves the store, plastic bag in hand, and jogs back to her car. Thankfully, the dog didn’t make it too far down the road so she leans up against her bumper and dumps the contents of the bag out on her trunk. She wads the bag up in a ball and stuffs it in her pocket, opening the box of Bufferin and twisting open the bottle. She tosses two back dry before opening the bag of jerky.

 

When the smell hits him, the dog turns, suddenly interested, and comes running back to Willow. He circles her and sniffs up her legs, woofing softly before sitting obediently in front of her. She already seems lighter in spirit and holds out a piece of jerky for the dog to take, and the mutt does so gingerly.

 

After two more pieces of jerky, she’s finally able to coax the dog into the passenger seat.

 

When she arrives home, she takes the dog down the hallway into the bathroom and starts a bath for him. While the tub is filling, he stands patiently as she cuts off his matted fur around his neck and belly with scissors. She takes the tangled fur and tosses it in the garbage can by her sink before easing the dog into the bathtub.

 

He’s obedient and stands relatively still as Willow works the soapy lather into his thick fur and around the bald spots. Dead fleas float in the bubbly water beneath him, and other braver ones jump off and drown in the water.

 

Willow drains the water and towel dries him while he still stands in the tub, and she laughs softly when he shakes the water off his fur and wags his tail. He clambers out of the tub gracelessly and Willow opens the door for him, letting him explore her small house. She follows him into the kitchen, flicking on the light and opening the fridge to get a bottle of water.

 

She twists open the cap and whistles, and the dog at her feet perks up when he hears the familiar sound of running feet and claws clicking on the hardwood floor. After only a few seconds, six more dogs enter the kitchen and start sniffing the new mutt curiously.

 

“Everyone, this is Winston. Winston, this is everyone.”

 

She lies down in bed, pulling the sheet up to her breast and whistling for the dogs. They come clambering up on the bed around her feet and at her sides and she slowly begins to relax her aching muscles. Moonlight-cast tree branch shadows stretch along the walls and across the ceiling and she closes her eyes and begins to drift asleep.

 

_There’s a second breathing by her ear and she knows it’s not one of the dogs, all curled up by her feet and hips. She opens her eyes and calmly turns her head to see who or what it is._

 

_Emil Nichols lies next to her, wearing the same pajamas as Willow found him in. He’s lying the same way he was in his own bed, except now he’s in hers. Willow reaches out to confirm or deny her reality, but as she reaches for him the shadows on the ceiling from the tree branches twist and contort into reality and pierce Emil through his wounds like antlers, pulling him back into the darkness._

 

Willow jolts awake in a sudden fright at her nightmare, gasping and jerking to sit up. Her sweat soaked shirt sticks to her back uncomfortably and her hair is stuck to the back of her neck. She sighs, defeated, and pulls the shirt off and tosses it to the side of her bed. She rolls over on her side, shaking in her own pool of sweat as she tries to doze off again.

 

* * *

 

**F.B.I. HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

Willow knocks a couple of pills back with shaky hands and leans forward, splashing her face with water and looking back up to the mirror as water streaks down her cheeks and drips off her nose. The ends of her hair are wet around her face and she glances up at the door in the mirror when it opens and Jacqueline steps inside.

 

“Let’s talk.”

 

An agent enters the bathroom and Jacqueline points at the door and shouts aggressively, “Use the men’s room!”

 

The agent abruptly turns with wide eyes and exits the room, and Willow eyes Jacqueline closing the door tiredly. She realizes she won’t be getting by without having a conversation, so she turns off the tap water and wipes her face with the bottom of her blue flannel.

 

“I’m fine. Just an unfortunate headspace, everyone gets like this from time to time. Never fun, but you get so you can function at least. I’m getting over it.”

 

Jacqueline watches her agent sniffle and put her glasses back on in silence before she finally speaks up, voice harsh and accusing.

 

“Do you respect my judgement?”

 

“Yes.” Willow replies cautiously, gaze trailing to one of the empty stalls just behind Jacqueline.

 

“We have a better chance of catching this guy if you’re the one in the saddle.”

 

Willow’s gaze meets the floor and she leans back against the sink, bracing her hands behind her on the edge of the porcelain. She’s silent, brow scrunched in thought as she considers her next words.

 

“I am in the saddle, I’m just confused about which way I’m going. I don’t know this kind of psychopath, never heard about him, never read about him. I don’t even know if he’s a psychopath! He’s not… He’s not insensitive. He’s not _shallow_!”

 

“Feeling bad defeats the purpose of being a psychopath, doesn’t it?”

 

“Yes, it does!”

 

“Then what kind of crazy is he!?” Jacqueline’s voice is impatient and booming, and it echoes throughout the empty restroom. They’re both silent, the only sound their breathing and the low hum of the air conditioner. When Willow speaks, she’s calmed down, having assessed the situation herself.

 

“He couldn’t show that he loved him so he put him back where he killed him. Whatever kind of crazy that is.”

 

“You think he loves these boys?”

 

“I think he loves one of them, and I think by association, he has some form of love for the others too.”

 

“There was no semen or saliva.”

 

“No, that’s not how he’s loving them. He wouldn’t disrespect them that way. … He doesn’t want these boys to suffer. He kills them quickly and, to his thinking, with mercy.”

 

“The sensitive psychopath. He risked getting caught to tuck Emil Nichols back into bed.”

 

“I think he knows that.”

 

“What else does he know?”

 

“He knows he has to take the next boy soon or he’ll be caught.”

 

* * *

 

**UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS**

 

“Willow Graham likes you. She doesn’t think you run any mind games on her.”

 

“And she’s right! I’m as honest with her as I am with my patients.”

 

Doctor Alan Bloom gives Jacqueline a warm smile as they walk around campus together on his lunch break. Ivy-covered Gothic style buildings rise tall on the horizon and well dressed students litter the courtyard, studying and meandering about to find a place to eat lunch.

 

“Been observing her during your guest appearances at her lectures?”

 

“You already asked me to do a study on her. I said no.”

 

“It would be a shame not to take advantage, academically speaking.”

 

“Anything scholarly written about Willow Graham would be published posthumously.”

 

“After you or after Graham?”

 

Alan ignores her question as they approach the hall he teaches in, and he lingers by one of the tall white columns while they talk. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his black coat, shying away from the chilly Chicago air.

 

“Why are you never alone with her, Alan?”

 

“Because I have a professional curiosity about her.”

 

“And if she caught you peeking she’d close the blinds, right?”

 

Alan laughs out of disbelief that they’re actually having this conversation, “You know, normally I wouldn’t even touch on this, but what do you think Willow’s strongest drive is?”

 

“Fear.”

 

Alan smiles, apparently pleased with her reply, and comments, “She deals with a huge amount of fear.”

 

“Because she got hurt?”

 

“No, not entirely. Fear comes with imagination, it's a penalty, it's the price of imagination.”

 

“Alan, I know what you’re thinking. I wouldn’t put her back out on the field if I couldn’t cover her.”

 

Alan raises an eyebrow and looks up at the dark skinned woman, amused by her remark. Jacqueline looks guilty, caught red handed, and corrects herself, “If I couldn’t cover her eighty percent, then.”

 

“I wouldn’t put her out there period.”

 

“Well, she’s out there. I need her out there and I need you to make sure she’s not out there alone. Come back to Quantico with me.”

 

“No, Jacqueline, you really don’t want me commenting on this on this in any professional capacity. It wouldn’t reflect well on you. I’m sorry you wasted the trip.” Alan says with genuine remorse, thick eyebrows furrowed and bright blue eyes hung low in apology.

 

“So am I.”

 

* * *

 

**BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

Beverly Katz and Brian Zeller hover over the examination table while Jimmy Price snaps on gloves and peels back the plastic sheet covering Emil Nichols’ corpse. He turns to Willow to explain their findings while Beverly enters information into the nearby computer, pulling up a scanned handprint.

 

“Tried for skin prints. Of course, nothing. We did get a hand spread on his neck, though.”

 

“Report say anything about nails?” Beverly asks, skimming the file on the computer for any mention of scrapings.

 

“His fingernails were smudged when Zeller and I looked for them, the scrapings were where he cut his own palms. He never scratched the killer.”

 

“Curly pieces of metal are all we got, then.”

 

“Curly pieces of metal?” Willow speaks up from her spot by the doorway, brows scrunched in confusion. Zeller looks up at her and waves his hand dismissively as he responds.

 

“Nothing major. I scraped some metal fibers off his shirt earlier.”

 

“We should be looking for plumbers, steamfitters, construction workers…”

 

“Other injuries were probably, but not conclusively, postmortem. He wasn’t gored.” Zeller concludes, looking over to Beverly.

 

“I said he has lots of piercings that look like they were caused by deer antlers. I didn’t say the deer was responsible for putting them there-”

 

“He was mounted on them,” Willow interrupts, “Like hooks. He could have been bled.”

 

Beverly and Jimmy glance at Willow, but Zeller is too wound up in his examination of the long abdominal wound to acknowledge her. He pushes the tissue back and reaches in with his gloved hand to remove the boy’s liver.

 

“His liver was removed. He took it out and put it back in. See?”

 

The other two lab workers gather at his sides and peek at the organ themselves. Jimmy Price, upon request, takes the organ in his own hands and holds it under the light to see the botched cuts where the killer had removed it.

 

“Why cut out the liver if he was just going to put it back?”

 

“There was something wrong with the meat.” Willow mutters, all clenched muscles in her face suddenly going slack. Zeller looks up from the liver with a confused look on his face, brows furrowed and lips pursed as he wonders how the agent could possibly know...

 

“He had liver cancer.”

 

“He’s eating them.”

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Hannah Lecter, erudite and professional in appearance, watches the man across from her sob into his hands inscrutably for a long moment. Her legs are crossed beneath her grey pencil skirt, and her hands are rested on her lap comfortably. The man sat across from her looks up from his hands, snot dripping over his lip and tears streaking his cheeks. He reaches weakly for the tissue box on the end table by the doctor’s chair.

 

“Please…”

 

Hannah holds out the tissue box he was reaching for, putting no effort into extending it more than her arm’s length. He strains outward from his chair to take it and his gaze trails very obviously up Hannah’s legs and between her skirt. Hannah’s eyes narrow when she notices and she hides a grimace.

 

“I hate being this neurotic.” The man mumbles, wiping his tears and blowing his nose with a tissue.

 

“If you weren’t this neurotic, Franklyn, you would be something much worse.” Hannah explains, accent heavy and low. She eyes the crumpled up tissue he tosses on the side table by his chair wearily before continuing, “Our brain is designed to experience anxieties in short bursts, not the prolonged foamy lathers of duress you seem to so enjoy. It’s why you feel there is a beast on the verge of devouring you. You have to convince yourself the beast is not in the room with you. Because when it is, I assure you, you will know.”

 

Franklyn remains silent, gaze fixated on intricate design of the rug under Hannah’s desk on his left. Hannah shifts her attention to the clock hanging above the aforementioned desk, and she clears her throat and moves to stand.

 

“Regretfully, that is all the time I can allow for this session. You’ll return on the eighteenth, yes?”

 

Franklyn nods as she ushers him out the door, and the doctor’s eyes widen a fraction when she sees someone else in the way of the door.

 

“Doctor Lecter.” Jacqueline pushes herself from the chair she was sitting in to extend her hand out towards Franklyn in greeting. “I’m, uh, Special Agent--”

 

“I hate to be discourteous but this is a private exit for my patients,” Hannah says, cutting Jacqueline’s mistaken introduction short.

 

“Oh, Doctor Lecter!” Jacqueline laughs, pulling her I.D. out of her suit jacket and holding it up for Hannah to see. “I’m Special Agent Jacqueline Crawford. F.B.I. May I come in?”

 

“You may wait in the waiting room.” She states firmly, putting a hand on Franklyn’s hunched shoulder and speaking before the agent can fit another word in. “Franklyn, I’ll see you next week.” Hannah says, nodding towards the exit. She looks to Jacqueline before continuing, “Unless, of course, this is about him.”

 

“Oh, no, this is all about you.”

 

“In that case, please, come in.” Hannah offers, stepping aside from the doorway.

 

Jacqueline steps inside, eyes wandering the exquisite office as she allows her gaze the roam along the small library on the second floor of the office. She admires the woman’s artwork in charcoal lying on her desk before she comes in, heels clacking on the hardwood floor as she walks.

 

“Might I ask why this is about me?”

 

“You can ask, but I need to ask you a few questions first. Are you expecting another patient?”

 

“No, we are all alone.”

 

“No secretary?”

 

“Was pre-dispositioned to romantic whims. She followed her heart to the United Kingdom, it was sad to see her go.”

 

Jacqueline hums in understanding, turning back to the desk and looking over the drawing of a Parisian landscape, clearly impressed.

 

“Are these yours, Doctor?”

 

“One of many, I went to a medical boarding school in Paris as a girl. I learned very early that a scalpel cuts better points than a pencil sharpener.” Hannah explains while picking up the scalpel and pencil that lay next to her drawings. She begins to sharpen the pencil and looks up towards Jacqueline for a response.

 

“Incredible attention to detail. I understand your drawings earned you an internship at Johns Hopkins.”

 

Hannah chuckles, circling her desk so she’s standing across from the detective. She stacks papers to the side of her desk and gives Jacqueline a tight-lipped smile.

 

“I begin to suspect you’re investigating me, Agent Crawford.”

 

“You were referred to me by Doctor Alan Bloom in the psychology department of the University of Chicago.”

 

“Most psychology departments are filled with personality deficients. Alan Bloom would be the exception to that.”

 

“He showed me your your paper in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry. Evolutionary Origins of Social Exclusion.”

 

“Yes, what did you think of it?”

 

“Very interesting, even to a layman.”

 

“You consider yourself a layman?”

 

“I do when I’m in your company. I’d like your help developing a psychological profile.”

 

* * *

 

**F.B.I. HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

“Tell me then, how many confessions?”

 

“Twelve dozen last time I checked. None of them had enough details to be considered valid until this morning. And then they all had details.”

 

Jacqueline moves from where she’s showing Hannah the evidence board back to her desk, pulling out her rolling chair and sinking into it, clearly exhausted.

 

“Some genius from the Circle Pines PD decided to snap a picture of Emil Nichols’ body on his cell phone and shared it with his friends. Then Freddy Lounds got ahold of it and next thing you know, it’s in the Tattler’s latest issue.”

 

“Tasteless.” Willow grumbles bitterly from her seat on the other side of Jacqueline’s desk, eyes narrowed at the mere thought of Freddy Lounds. Suddenly interested, Hannah turns away from the evidence board with an amused expression on her face.

 

“Do you have trouble with taste?”

 

“... My thoughts are often not tasty.”

 

“Nor mine. No effective barriers.”

 

Willow lets out a harsh breath, uncomfortable and drained just from this little bit of interaction, and she takes a gulp of her coffee as she speaks quickly.

 

“I build forts.”

 

“Associations come quickly.”

 

“So do forts.”

 

Hannah clicks her long red nails on the mug in her hands as she moves to sit in the chair next to Willow’s, raising an eyebrow curiously when Willow instantaneously shies away from her and her face flushes down to her neck.

 

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

 

Willow sighs through her teeth, setting her mug down on the desk in front of her before thinking of a fluid response.

 

“Eyes are distracting. You see too much without knowing enough. It’s really hard to focus on what you’re doing when you’re thinking ‘Those whites are really white.’ or ‘They must have hepatitis.’ or ‘Is that a busted blood vessel?’ So I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.”

 

“I imagine what you observe and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations. Appalled by your dreams. No forts in your mind to protect you from the darkness.”

 

Jacqueline doesn’t seem to pay much mind to Hannah’s observations and continues to scroll through the online issue of the Tattler, and Willow looks at her in dismay.

 

“Jacqueline?”

 

“Hm?”

 

The detective doesn’t look up from her screen and Willow grits her teeth, making eye contact with Hannah for the first time.

 

“Whose profile are you working on?” She demands, “Jacqueline! Whose profile is she working on!?”

 

“I apologize if you thought me rude, Willow. Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off anymore than you can shut yours off.”

 

Willow laughs coldly, clearly offended by the intrusion on her psyche. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.” She warns, “You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”

 

Hannah sips her coffee and glances over at Willow with an amused look, raising her eyebrows slightly.

 

“Willow-” Jacqueline begins, but Willow stands from her chair, the legs squeaking against the hardwood as she pushes it back, and she gathers her coat and her bag.

 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lecture to give about psychoanalyzing.”

 

She leaves without another word to either woman and Jacqueline and Hannah both stare as she exits the room and slams the door closed.

 

“Maybe we shouldn’t poke her like that, Doctor Lecter. Perhaps a less, uh, direct approach.”

 

“What she has is pure empathy,” Hannah begins, setting her mug down and leaning forward to address Jacqueline, “She can assume your point of view, or mine, or maybe some other points of view that scare her. It’s an uncomfortable gift, Jacqueline. Perception is a tool that is pointed at both ends.”

 

Jacqueline momentarily realizes her mistake making the two women meet, but Hannah is quick to redirect her attention back to the evidence board, though the topic still stays on Willow.

 

“This cannibal you have her investigating, I think I can help our dear Willow see his face.”

 

* * *

 

**CRIME SCENE, FIELD ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF HIBBING, MINNESOTA**

 

“I feel like I’m dreaming.”

 

Jacqueline and Willow step over the yellow police tape to enter the crime scene, the bustle of detectives and the incessant chatter and flash of cameras enough to make Willow’s migraine return. Cameron Boyle’s nude corpse is impaled by antlers through his legs and abdomen, the racks twisted around him to tastefully mask his nudity. A small murder of crows pecks at his flesh, which Brian Zeller waves off with his hand, shouting profanity at the birds.

 

Jacqueline and Willow watch from a distance as Zeller tries to shoo away the birds while Jimmy Price and Beverly immediately sweep the area for any forensic evidence. Willow stuffs her hands in her coat pockets as she watches her breath puff up in the chilly morning air.

 

“Minneapolis homicide has already made a statement. They’re calling him the Minnesota Shrike.”

 

“Did Minneapolis homicide make that statement or did Freddy Lounds?”

 

Jacqueline smiles and looks at her agent knowingly, “You don’t want the answer to that question.”

 

Willow scoffs and ushers for Jacqueline to walk with her, and at a leisurely pace they approach the tableau. “Minnesota Shrike? Like the bird?”

 

“Shrike’s a perching bird. Impales mice and lizards with thorny branches, that rips the guts right out of them. Then it puts them in a little birdie pantry to eat later.” Jimmy explains while he continues to examine the antlers for any prints.

 

“That sounds about right. … He wanted us to find him like this, almost like he’s mocking him.” Willow states, eyes narrowed in thought, then she realizes suddenly, “He’s mocking us.”

 

“Where did all his love go?”

 

“No… No, Jacqueline. Whoever painted this picture didn’t paint Emil Nichols’.”

 

Zeller stands from where he was leaned over the body prodding at its wounds and says solemnly, “He took his lungs. I… think he was still alive when he did it.”

 

Hannah presses down on a set of lungs firmly with the palm of her right hand, shifting her body weight forward to be sure that all of the air is out of them. She grabs the trachea, lifting the lungs off the cutting board slightly as she slices through to detach the lobes. She cuts through the excess parts of the lungs, discarding them to the side.

 

Willow finally tears her gaze away from the scene to give her soul some relief, taking in the open field as she assesses the beginnings of a profile.

 

“What do you call a copy cat who’s crazier than the original?” Zeller asks jokingly from his spot by the corpse, and Willow merely laughs and turns to Jacqueline.

 

“Our cannibal loves men. He doesn’t want to destroy them, he wants to consume them so a part of them is inside of him. This boy’s killer thought he was disgusting.”

 

“But still tasty enough to eat.”

 

Willow’s face relaxes as she thinks, pacing back and forth by the police tape. “This killer eats them _because_ she thinks they’re disgusting. She doesn’t respect them, she-”

 

“You’re assuming this killer is a woman?”

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

“Serial killers are more likely to be men.”

 

“Not everyone fits the profile, Jacqueline. The cannibal who killed Emil Nichols has no interest in displaying his kills. He has a house, maybe two. Possibly a cabin. Something… Something with an antler room.”

 

“We’re already checking records on Minnesota tool-workers with hunting licenses.”

 

“He would have a son. Same hair color, same eye color, same height, same weight. Same age as the other boys. He’s still in high school, he’s an only child. He’s…” Willow pauses and stops in her tracks, turning back to Cameron’s mounted corpse as the horror of the unknown boy’s reality hits her, “He’s the golden ticket.”

 

Hannah pours brandy into a pan over the stove, flambéing the mixture of tomatoes, onions, and meat in the pan. She sets the bottle aside gently, clicking off the stove as she continues to shake the pan. She leaves the pan atop the burner and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

 

“What about this copycat?”

 

“An intelligent psychopath, particularly a sadist, is hard to catch. There’s no pattern, no traceable motive. For all we know she may never kill like this again.”

 

As Jacqueline is about to respond, Willow turns and steps over the tape and starts heading for her car.

 

“Produce another body for me or have Dr. Lecter work up a psychological profile,” She tosses back with a bite to her tone, “You seem to be _very_ impressed with her opinion.”

 

Hannah cuts through a portion of meat and promptly takes a bite, smiling contently as she chews. She swirls the wine in her glass around some before she takes a sip, admiring the meal on her plate.

 

* * *

 

**SNELLING MOTEL, MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA**

 

Willow awakes from a restless sleep to a quick rapping at her door, and she sits up amid the mass of blankets and sheets on her firm bed. She stands and rubs the sleep out of her eyes as she shuffles towards the door, still wearing only her t-shirt and panties.

 

Her long hair is a mess and she’s disoriented as she feels around for the doorknob, the sheets and towels she’d draped over the window blocking out all light from outside. She opens the door and squints against the morning light flooding in, blinking a couple of times before it registers who’s in front of her.

 

“Good morning, Willow. May I come in?”

 

Hannah Lecter stands before Willow with an inviting look on her face and a thermos can and two plastic containers in each hand. Her hair is pulled back in a tidy bun and she’s clad in a dark brown blazer and pencil skirt today, and Willow feels severely underdressed, as if their near six inch height difference didn’t already make her feel small.

 

“Where’s Jacqueline?”

 

“Deposed in court. I’m afraid the adventure today will be yours and mine.” She teases before glancing over Willow’s shoulder to the dark motel room behind her with a suggestive smile.

 

“May I come in?”

 

“... You may.”

 

Hannah sits at the small table by the window and pops off the tupperware lids as she speaks to Willow, who is shucking on pajama pants in any attempt to make herself more presentable. “I’m very careful about what I put in my body, which means I end up preparing most meals myself. I suspect you could use a homemade meal.”

 

Willow sits across from her and watches the woman pour the two of them cups of coffee in white mugs provided by the motel from her thermos. Afterwards, she slides one of the tupperware containers towards Willow and explains, “A morning protein scramble, you could say. Some eggs, some sausage.”

 

Willow eyes the food warily before she picks up her fork and sinks it into one of the sausage pieces. She chews slowly, trying to identify what kind of meat it’s composed of. Regardless, it’s better than any kind of pre-packaged sausage she’s used to.

 

“This is delicious, thank you.” Willow says, surprised to find how much she’s enjoying Hannah’s cooking. Or maybe it’s the fact that she hasn’t had a home cooked meal since… Well, she can’t even remember how long it’s been.

 

“My pleasure.” Hannah replies with a genuinely pleased smile before she returns her attention back to her meal, pushing a forkful of eggs past her lips and eating it before she speaks again. “I must apologize for my analytical behavior earlier.”

 

“Just keep it professional.” Willow warns as she takes a sip of her coffee, warm on its way down her throat and strong in taste. It’s not like the kind she puts in her twenty dollar coffee pot at home that spits out something so close to water it seems wrong to call it coffee.

 

“Or we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friendly.”

 

“I don’t find you that interesting.” Willow says bluntly, stabbing her fork into a hunk of egg, which Hannah watches with amusement in her eyes.

 

“You will.” Hannah replies, taking a sip of her own coffee before changing the subject, “It is no secret Agent Crawford has an agenda for you. This morning’s last minute deposition reeks of convenience.”

 

“It sure did.” Willow chuckles lightly, and she closes the lid once she’s finished eating.

 

“I spoke to your good friend Dr. Bloom earlier today. He wouldn’t gossip, not a word. He’s very protective of you, smitten I would say. He asked me to keep an eye on you.”

 

Willow studies her for a long moment before she gulps down the last bit of her coffee, deciding to keep it to business.

 

“I think we’re going to catch him soon. The original Shrike, I mean.”

 

“The Devil is in the details. What did your copy cat murder lack in the field? What gave it away?”

 

“Everything. It’s like she had to show me a negative for me to see the positive. That crime scene was like opening a present on Christmas morning.”

 

“You’re assuming this killer is a woman.”

 

“Are you questioning that assumption?”

 

“No, merely observing.” Hannah explains, twisting the cap back on her thermos and stacking the now empty tupperwares in front of her. “I believe Aunt Jacqueline sees you as a fragile teacup, the finest china only special guests have the privilege of using.”

 

Willow laughs at that, face crinkled in giddy amusement as she leans back in her chair. Hannah smiles at her ease, then Willow speaks once more after her laughing fit has subsided.

 

“How do you see me?”

 

“The mongoose I want under the house when a snake slithers by.”

 

* * *

 

**CONSTRUCTION SITE, BLOOMINGTON, MINNESOTA**

 

“Two ladies from the F.B.I. They’re going through the drawers now. Yes, they’re taking things. No, they didn’t say whe- Hold on.”

 

The nervous secretary stands from her desk and holds the phone to her side as she speaks to Willow and Hannah, who are both rummaging through filing cabinets looking for anything out of the ordinary. "What did y'all say your names were?" Willow stops looking through the cabinet and glances at the woman, who huffs and presses the phone back to her ear. “I’ll call you back.”

 

She hangs up and Willow picks a resignation letter out of the folder in her hands, squinting at it doubtfully.

 

“Garret Jacob Hobbs? Phone number but no address… Do you know if he has a son?”

 

“Might have, I don’t keep company with these folks.”

 

Willow finishes reading over the letter before she tucks it back in the folder and drops it on the box of paperwork she and Hannah had gathered.

 

“We’ll be on our way, sorry to disturb you.” She says, heaving the box up off the floor. The secretary is quick to come to her rescue, opening the door to let her out. She follows her out to her beaten up sedan and they chat idly on the way, but Hannah lingers behind for a moment longer as she grabs the remaining box that the files are set atop of. She walks out to the steps and holds it out for the secretary to carry to the car. As the secretary starts to get a grip on the box, Hannah tilts it forward some in a rush and the papers and files on top spill out onto the gravel.

 

Willow rushes towards the falling papers and blurts a quick, “I got it.”

 

Hannah lingers on the top step for a second to be sure that their attention is occupied before she walks back inside the trailer. She carefully walks towards the secretary’s desk and grabs a tissue, folding it neatly before picking up the phone receiver. She calmly enters the phone number with her knuckle and sighs as she waits for the dial tone.

 

* * *

 

**HOBBS HOUSEHOLD, BLOOMINGTON, MINNESOTA**

 

“I’ll get it!” Abraham calls when he hears the phone ringing, coming in the kitchen from the living room where his parents are preparing breakfast together.

 

“Hello? … Yeah just a second. Dad, it’s for you.”

 

“Who is it?”

 

“Caller I.D. says it’s work.”

 

Hobbs nods and steps away from the stove, heading out the kitchen door and out onto the deck so he can hear over his wife and son chatting.

 

“Hello.”

 

“Mister Garret Jacob Hobbs?” Questions the disembodied voice, honeyed and low with a thick European accent on the other line.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Mister Hobbs, we do not know each other and I doubt we’ll ever meet. Consider this a courtesy call of sorts. Listen to me very carefully. Are you listening?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“They know.”

 

Hannah hangs up the phone, setting it down gently. She tosses the tissue she had used while holding the phone into the waste basket and looks back towards the door with an indiscernible expression before exiting the trailer.

 

* * *

  
**RESIDENCE OF SUSPECT, GARRET JACOB HOBBS, BLOOMINGTON, MINNESOTA**

 

Willow pulls up the gravel driveway of a cozy, well kept tract house in her blue rental car and shifts it into park. She would consider eight in the morning an unreasonably early time to interrogate a suspect, but when Hannah showed up at her motel room with coffee in hand, she didn’t feel she had a place to decline.

 

She rubs her tired eyes and looks to the right where Hannah sits, taking her non prescription glasses out of her pocket and putting them on in preparation for a long discussion with a stranger.

 

She gets out after Hannah and locks the doors with the keyless remote in her hand, sliding it in her pocket as she approaches the porch. Hannah lags behind, walking with slow strides behind Willow. Her dark brown heels crunch dead grass beneath her, which she takes notice of only briefly before the front door is swinging open.

 

Willow jumps back when Garret Jacob Hobbs opens the front door abruptly, tossing his wife out on the front porch before slamming it shut again. For a moment, Willow doesn’t even recognize what’s happened, too caught up in the speed of the strange encounter. She recovers in an instant and runs to Louise Hobbs, lying on her back and letting out silent screams and pleas up at the detective. Willow kneels, eyes blown wide and hands trembling as she tries to cover the gash cut ear to ear across the blonde’s throat in any attempt to stop the flow of the pool of blood beneath her. Louise goes motionless after a short moment and Willow jumps up and takes her handgun out of its holster, kicking in the front door and entering the house.

 

Hannah approaches the corpse of Mrs. Hobbs by the front steps and is careful not to get blood on her shoes, regarding her corpse silently with a tilt of her head and studying the wound inscrutably.

 

“Garret Jacob Hobbs! F.B.I!”

 

Willow moves quickly into the kitchen where the accused is holding his son from behind with a knife to his throat. The boy has his chin tucked down and he’s wailing and begging, gripping his father’s arm to try to pry his hand away from his throat. Willow stares wide eyed at the sight and as soon as the man starts to slice Abraham’s throat, Willow’s shooting him. She shoots him a total of ten times, blood splashing her cheeks and over her glasses and the gunshots ringing loud and drowning out the sound of the teenage boy’s body collapsing on the floor. Garret Jacob Hobbs struggles for breath, now slumped back against the counter below the sink, watching Willow’s frantic movements in amusement.

 

Willow drops her gun on the tile floor and falls to her knees to tend to the boy, now lying on the floor and gasping for breath as blood gushes out of his cut like a fountain. Willow tries to hold his throat closed with trembling hands, but his blood spills out between her fingers and he looks up at her with dulling eyes as he starts to slip out of consciousness.

 

“No, no, no-” Willow begs aloud, swiping one of her bloodied hands over Abraham’s pale cheek to try to bring him back to reality.

 

"See?" Garret Jacob Hobbs hisses painfully through his teeth at Willow, and the frazzled woman looks at him with wide eyes. Willow stares at him for a long moment until Hannah comes in and looks at the gruesome scene pitifully. Willow finally tears her gaze away from the dying man and looks up at Hannah pleadingly.

 

“Doctor Lecter, please help he’s-”

 

That’s the only coaxing Hannah needs before she’s kneeling down and joining Willow in the pool of blood. She gently moves Willow's shaking hands and cups her own hand over Abraham’s throat. She glances up from the unconscious boy up at Willow, who makes queasy eye contact with her. Hannah’s gaze softens into that of condolence, and the fingers around Abraham’s throat tighten instinctively when Willow finally breaks the gaze and sobs.

 

Willow leans with her back against the rental car, bloodied hands braced on the door frame as she stares off into the distant horizon with vacant eyes. Hannah walks with the gurney as the EMTs wheel Abraham up into the back of an ambulance, hair uncharacteristically disheveled and palms sticky and red. She climbs in the back of the vehicle, sitting next to the injured teen and looking out and making eye contact with Willow across the yard before she closes the doors. Willow watches the van roll over the gravel as it rolls away from the house, directing her attention back to the crime scene cleaners when she hears the sirens wail as it hurries down the road.

 

* * *

  
**F.B.I ACADEMY, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

Jacqueline enters Professor Graham’s lecture hall and walks down the middle section between the stacked tables, and her pace slows when she hears a voice that isn’t Willow’s.

 

“In cases where a victim has been bitten, emergency room personnel can be very helpful in determining how-”

 

Doctor Alan Bloom cuts himself off and looks at Jacqueline across the dimly lit room. He’d been giving a lecture over connections between childhood trauma and killers who bite their victims at any point during the attack, and all the trainees look disinterested, taking notes on their laptops over the oration. He clicks the remote for the next slide to appear behind him, a collection of photos of different types of aggressive bites. He instructs the class to copy the names of each wound down before he walks towards Jacqueline.

 

“Where’s Graham?” She asks slowly as to not set the man off, but his gaze still hardens as if he’d been betrayed.

 

“You told me you could cover her.”

 

Before Jacqueline can respond, Alan, as respectfully as he can manage, turns on his heel and returns to his lecture.

 

* * *

 

**FAIRVIEW SOUTHDALE HOSPITAL, BLOOMINGTON, MINNESOTA**

 

 

Willow squints beneath the horrendous glare of the hospital’s fluorescent lights, passing by a couple of doctors as she rounds the corner. She notes the room number before entering quietly, closing the door with a soft click behind her.

 

Abraham Hobbs lies motionless in his bed, throat stitched and wrapped and a tube down his throat to keep him breathing. A quick glance to his monitors tells Willow he’s in a stable condition, but her gaze trails to the occupied chair next to his bed.

 

Hannah sits with an open book turned upside down on her lap over her navy pencil skirt, her head lulled to the side as she sleeps. Her left arm is extended to the bed next to her, and her hand rests atop the teens in a small comfort. Willow circles the bed to sit on his other side, sinking into the chair and relaxing for the first time since they saved him.

 

A pang of sorrow strikes her suddenly, regret washing over her at the fact that she couldn’t save him sooner.

  
Willow looks back to Hannah’s hand holding Abraham’s and sighs through her nose, her gaze softening at the sight. The steady sound of Abraham’s heart monitor beeping lulls her to sleep, and for the first time in years she doesn’t dream of monsters.


	2. Amuse-bouche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays to those who celebrate! We're hoping to be able to write one chapter a month, maybe two if we're on a roll. We're starting to take more liberty in writing and took out a crime scene and added more interactions, so anticipate the next chapter being in a similar style.
> 
> This chapter focuses a lot on Abraham Hobbs with a lot of appearances from Freddy Lounds. Next chapter will introduce Abel Gideon and will have a lot more interactions between Hannah and Willow.
> 
> Names:  
> Will Graham - Willow Graham  
> Hannibal Lecter - Hannah Lecter  
> Abigail Hobbs - Abraham Hobbs  
> Alana Bloom - Alan Bloom  
> Clarice Starling - Clarence Starling  
> Jack Crawford - Jacqueline Crawford  
> Bedelia Du Maurier - Bedilayn Du Maurier  
> Freddie Lounds - Freddy Lounds  
> Mason Verger - Macy Verger  
> Margot Verger - Marco Verger
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE, MURDER, BRIEF CANNIBALISM, BRIEF SMUT (This starts with the place stamp "SKYLINE MOTEL, MOUNDS VIEW, MINNESOTA" and isn't too pertinent to the plot so there's not harm in skipping it. Just know that Brian Zeller and Freddy Lounds slept together and it's mentioned briefly once later in the chapter.), AND NONGRAPHIC ANIMAL HARM/DEATH (This is a very brief hunting scene with Garret Jacob Hobbs and Abraham that starts with the place stamp "PORT HAVEN PSYCHIATRIC FACILITY, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND" and also wouldn't hurt to skip. If you do intend to skip this part, the hunting scene is a flashback in italics so just skip until it's plain text again.)

**CRIME SCENE, CHIPPEWA NATIONAL FOREST, CASS LAKE, MINNESOTA**

 

Willow Graham wakes with a start when Jacqueline knocks on the passenger side window that she’d been using as a pillow, and she sits up and looks around, disoriented from being startled awake. She looks out the window with tired eyes where Jacqueline stands, one hand in the pocket of her long black coat and the other on the window, the knuckle of her middle finger tapping the glass.

 

“We’re here.”

 

Willow slowly wills herself out of the car when Jacqueline begins to walk towards the cabin they’re investigating, and she closes the car door with her hip and watches as a cool breeze whips overgrown dead grass by her feet. She walks ahead of Jacqueline and opens the door, and as it creaks open dead leaves blow inside on the dirty hardwood floor. The floorboards squeak under the weight of her feet and she looks around the small cabin, transfixed on the antlers mounted on the walls. Not only that, but on the ceiling as well. Every inch of wall space is covered in sharp, twisting antlers that have been covered in veil-like evidence bags. The clear bags do little to cover the racks, and some of the antlers poke holes in them and stick out. She approaches a bloodied rack covered by one of the bags and doesn’t look up when she hears Jacqueline enter the shack, heavy footfall making the floorboards groan lowly.

 

“Could be a permanent installation in your Evil Minds Museum. Unfortunate that the park rangers never noticed something as gruesome as this.”

 

“What we learn here will help us catch the next Garret Jacob Hobbs. This case isn’t closed yet, there are still seven bodies unaccounted for.”

 

“Because he ate them.”

 

“Had to be parts he didn’t eat.”

 

Willow finally steps back from the bloodied rack and glances over her shoulder towards her boss with a shrug. “Not necessarily.” She says, walking towards the narrow staircase by the door. She makes her way up the stairs to the next level of the cabin, ducking under the antlers overhead.

 

“What if Hobbs wasn’t killing alone?” Jacqueline calls up, and Willow peers over the railing of the edge of the overlook to look down at the woman. Jacqueline takes this as her cue to continue, “Lot of work kidnapping and butchering these boys alone. All without leaving a shred of evidence outside this shack, at that. Someone in a coma who he could have hunted with.”

 

“Abraham Hobbs is a _suspect_?”

 

“Could be. We’ve been doing door-to-door interviews at the houses around the Hobbs residence.”

 

“And?”

 

“Hobbs and his son spent a lot of time together. They spent a lot of time together _here_. The boy would be the perfect bait, wouldn’t he?”

 

Willow, wide-eyed and appalled, considers this for a moment before stepping away from the railing and shaking her head.

 

“Hobbs killed alone.”

 

“You don’t have to feel responsible for this boy, Willow.”

 

Willow doesn’t respond to that, but a pang of guilt washes over her at the thought that Abraham could have helped his father. She continues her sweep of the room, squinting at the skinning table that seems to have been tampered with.

 

“Someone was here before us.”

 

“Could be park rangers.” Jacqueline calls from downstairs, and Willow notes the crinkling of plastic as Jacqueline pulls one of the bags off on the bloody rack she’d been looking at earlier.

 

“Park rangers wouldn’t have touched anything.” Willow mutters, halfway to herself, and leans over the table to look for anything out of the ordinary. The smell of dried blood hits her and dizzies her for a moment before she spots a short strand of curly red hair and picks it up carefully between her fingers.

 

“Has the Tattler released a new article yet?”

* * *

 

**SKYLINE MOTEL, MOUNDS VIEW, MINNESOTA**

 

Brian Zeller’s fingers tangle up tightly in thick red curls, and he groans lowly when Freddy rocks his hips and slips further down on his cock.

 

“Fuck, Brian-” He pants wetly, fingers twitching where they’re gripping Zeller’s forearms and insides of his thighs raw and aching from the friction of his fast movements. He releases his tight grip on his right arm and moves his trembling hand to grip his leaking cock.

 

He pumps it quickly and Zeller holds his hips in a bruising grip and thrusts up into him one last time and cums with a low moan, picking Freddy up and slamming him back down to ride out his own orgasm. Freddy goes quiet aside from his heavy, uneven breathing, and his mouth hangs open and his eyes roll back as he speeds up the jerking motion on his cock.

 

He shudders as he cums, heat that had pooled in his gut finally releasing on Zeller’s chest in white spurts. In his post-orgasmic bliss, Freddy lifts up and collapses next to Zeller, curling to his side and pressing exhausted kisses to his jawline. Zeller runs his knuckles over the man’s pale, freckle littered back and tilts his head to the side to land a sloppy, off centered kiss to the corner of his mouth. Freddy sighs into it and holds Zeller’s stubbly cheeks as he kisses him, slow and warm but void of any sentiment.

 

Freddy extends his arm and whines in feigned disappointment when Zeller rolls out of bed and mutters something about showering, and he watches Zeller tie off the condom and toss it haphazardly into the trash can by the night stand.

 

When Freddy hears the bathroom door click shut and the shower turn on, he sits up and reaches over the edge of the bed to pick up his discarded boxers, standing and pulling them up his skinny legs before dropping into the squeaky desk chair across from the bed. He opens his laptop lid and hums idly as he plugs his digital camera up to his laptop and starts skimming through the folder under today’s date. He double clicks on a photo and a dark room appears on screen, walls lined with racks upon racks of deer antlers.

 

Next is a photo of a sanded down table with droplets of blood staining the wood here and there, four skinning knives set to the side and a gutting knife dropped in the center. He presses escape to go back to the folder of small thumbnails, clicking and holding down on the photo of the table and dragging it onto his browser page, aligning it to the left of his article draft. He eyes his content and his lips twitch up in half a smile in pride of his work. Fast fingers type the headline, “INSIDE THE SHRIKE’S NEST” before he publishes the finished work and closes the lid of his laptop.

 

* * *

 

**F.B.I ACADEMY, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

Willow enters her lecture hall and to her surprise she’s met with a standing ovation from her students. She keeps her gaze on the floor and her pace quickens, shoulders tensing and her face scrunching in discomfort.

 

“Thank you.” She says in hopes it will end the applause, but when it doesn't she continues firmer, “ _Please_ stop that.”

 

The applause slowly dies down and the students awkwardly shuffle to get back in their seats. Willow sighs through her nose, face falling flat again as she turns off the lights and clicks her projector on to flash an image of Garret Jacob Hobbs’ resignation letter up on the wall. She returns to her desk at the center of the room and leans against it so she's facing her students.

 

“This is how I caught Garret Jacob Hobbs. Does anyone see anything suspicious?”

 

A few hands go in the air, but she ignores them.

 

“There isn't anything. He wrote a letter, left his phone number, but no address. That's it.”

 

She clicks the button on the remote in her left hand and the next image appears on the wall behind her. It's Garret Jacob Hobbs’ corpse, blood splattered on the wall above the counter behind him and smeared on the floor beneath him. Her students fall completely silent at the sight of the horrific scene.

 

“Bad bookkeeping and dumb luck.”

 

_She turns to look over her shoulder at the photo, which she quickly realizes is a mistake. She feels nauseous and dread washes over her, and suddenly she's back in the kitchen with her fingers wrapped around Abraham Hobbs’ bleeding throat. The sound of his wheezing is drowned out by Garret Jacob Hobbs hissing, and it sounds like he's right by her ear._

 

_“See?”_

 

When she turns to look at him, she’s back in her classroom. She shakes it off and clicks the next slide quickly, a photo of Abraham and Garret Jacob Hobbs smiling after a hunting trip. Happier times.

 

“Garret Jacob Hobbs is dead. Now we have to stop those his story is going to inspire.”

 

The next slide shows Cameron Boyle’s corpse mounted on antlers.

 

“He already has one admirer.”

 

The trainees slowly file out once class is over and Willow goes back to her desk to stack up papers and tuck them into a folder. Despite avoiding eye contact with her students, she immediately notices Alan Bloom’s presence when he enters the room in a rush.

 

She pushes her glasses up and her eyes meet his instantly, cheeks reddening when he smiles at her.

 

“Hi.”

 

“How are you, Willow?”

 

“I have no idea.”

 

Alan smiles with pity in his eyes at that and his fingers fidget with the right sleeve of his red floral button up as he speaks.

 

“I didn't want you to feel ambushed-”

 

“Is this an ambush?”

 

“No, the ambush comes later. Immediately later, soon to now. When Jacqueline arrives.”

 

Jacqueline comes in before he even finishes his statement and stands to the left of Alan with her hands in the pockets of her slacks. She wears a stern expression and Alan sends her an apologetic look over his shoulder.

 

“How was class?”

 

“They applauded. It was inappropriate.”

 

“Review board begs to differ. You’re up for a commendation and they okayed active return to the field.”

 

Willow takes a moment to let this information set, eyes cast down to the floor. Alan clears his throat and approaches his next words gently, “Question is, do you want to go back in the field?”

 

“I want you back out there, but I told the Board I’m recommending a psych evaluation.” Jacqueline says, and Willow looks back up in surprise at her words. She makes eye contact with Alan with a plea for mercy in her eyes, and he smiles at her sympathetically.

 

“Are we starting now?”

 

“Oh, no, the session won’t be with me. Unless you want it to-”

 

“I think Doctor Lecter is more up your alley. Your relationship with her is less personal.” Jacqueline interrupts their discussion and Alan looks at her, shocked by her decision.

 

“Doctor Lecter was there when it happened, Jacqueline!”

 

Before the detective has a chance to respond, Willow laughs uncomfortably and brings the attention back to herself.

 

“I’m not going to be comfortable with anyone inside my head.”

 

“You just pulled the trigger ten times.”

 

“Oh, so the psych eval isn’t just a formality.”

 

“It’s so I can sleep at night. I asked you to get close to Hobbs and I need to make sure you didn’t get too close. How many nights have you spent in Abraham Hobbs’ hospital room?”

 

Willow dodges the subject with ease, bristling at Jacqueline’s confrontation and scoffing, “Therapy doesn’t work on me.”

 

“‘Cause you don’t let it.”

 

“‘Cause I know all the tricks.” She barks back and she watches Jacqueline’s lips twitch before they turn to a frown and her eyes narrow.

 

“Then unlearn those tricks. I need my beauty sleep, Willow.”

 

Willow’s shoulders tense but she bites her tongue as she watches Jacqueline turn on her heel and make her way back towards the door. Alan offers her a supportive smile and he puts a hand on her back between her shoulder blades and nods towards the door.

 

“Why not have a conversation with Hannah? She was there, she saw what you were going through. If you really want me to do your evaluation, I can talk to Jacqueline and see if she’ll make a compromise.”

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER'S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Jacqueline wouldn’t make a compromise.

 

The sound of heels clacking against hardwood becomes apparent as Hannah makes her way from where she was studying patient records at her desk to the door. She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear before opening the door to the waiting room. She steps out into the doorway when there’s no immediate sound of movement and her eyes fall upon Willow where she sits in one of the leather chairs with her coat folded over her lap.

 

“Good evening, Willow. Please come in.” Hannah insists with a welcoming smile and gesture of her hand back towards her office.

 

Hannah walks back over to her desk to gather her papers, taking note of Willow shifting back and forth on her feet in the doorway. She nods towards the chairs, “Take a seat, I should be ready as soon as you get comfortable.” She straightens the papers against the desk before sliding them into a leather folder.

 

Willow takes a seat in one of the leather chairs in the center of the room, her eyes trailing the walls lined with bookshelves on the upper level of the office.

 

Hannah straightens her skirt before taking her seat in the chair directly across from Willow’s. She pulls a document printed on high-quality stationery from the folder that rests on her lap and slides it across the table to Willow, a prescient smile forming at the corner of her lips.

 

Willow eyes the paper a moment before questioning, “What’s this?”

 

“Your psychological evaluation. You’re functional and more or less sane. Well done.” Hannah crosses her legs, sitting back in her chair slightly.

 

“Did you just rubber stamp me?”

 

Hannah covers her mouth with her hand as a smile forms on her lips, holding back a soft laugh. “Jacqueline can finally have a night’s rest knowing that she didn’t break you,” Hannah moves her eyes down towards the paper that lays on the table and back towards Willow, “and our conversation may remain unobstructed by paperwork.”

 

Willow studies Hannah inscrutably for a long moment before she speaks, “Jacqueline thinks… I need therapy.”

 

Hannah raises an eyebrow and taps the pen she’s holding against the folder once. “I’m not sure therapy will work on you. Stealing into other minds has taught you how to fortify your own.”

 

“That’s what I said.”

 

“What you need is a way out of dark places when Jacqueline sends you there.”

 

“Last time she sent me into a dark place I brought something back.”

 

“A son?” Hannah questions, hoping that addressing Abraham so soon will evoke an interesting response.

 

Willow opens her mouth to argue but decides against it quickly and closes her mouth again, eyes narrowing at the older woman across from her.

 

Hannah continues, distracting her disappointment by checking the time on her watch. “You saved Abraham Hobbs’ life. You also orphaned him. Regardless of any autistic disorders, you still have an obligation.”

 

“You were there. You saved his life too. Do you feel obligated?”

 

“Yes,” she responds, looking directly at Willow. “I feel a staggering amount of obligation. I feel a kind of motherly responsibility. I’ve fantasized about scenarios where my actions may have allowed a different fate for Abraham Hobbs. That’s something I hope you can relate to, Willow.”

 

“Jacqueline thinks Abraham Hobbs may have helped his dad kill those boys.”

 

Hannah lets Willow’s statement linger, holding the silence for longer than necessary. She maintains her gaze towards Willow. “How does that make you feel?”

 

“How does that make _you_ feel?”

 

“I find it vulgar.” Hannah replies smoothly, already expecting the question to be thrown back at her.

 

“Me too.”

 

“And completely possible.”

 

“It’s not what happened.”

 

“Jacqueline will ask him when he wakes up,” Hannah pauses for a brief moment before continuing, “Or she’ll have one of us ask him.”

 

“Is this therapy or a support group?”

 

“It’s whatever you need it to be.” Hannah offers as she stands, and she can feel Willow’s hard stare following her movements. She picks up the folder and makes her way back to her desk, but stops herself once she’s halfway there and turns back around. “Willow, the mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself, not the worst of someone else.”

 

Neither of them realize a high-powered microphone is pressed against the door of the office and Freddy Lounds stands in the waiting room patiently, the thin cables connecting the microphone stuck to the door to his earbuds and his recorder. He listens intently as they discuss the crime scene and he raises his eyebrows in interest when he hears borderline flirtatious comments from Hannah.

 

Freddy turns away from the door and rushes to shove his recorder and headphones into his leather messenger bag when he hears the steady clicking of heels against the hardwood floor. Hannah opens the door behind him, her gaze harsh against the unruly red curls on the back of his head.

 

“Mister Kimball?” Hannah questions dryly.

 

“Yes!”

 

“Good evening. Please, come in.” Hannah moves back from the door, allowing Freddy to make his way into her office. She closes the door once he’s inside and turns back to find him wandering around the room in feigned awe. She follows with her eyes where he’s looking along the bookshelves.

 

“I’ve never been a psychiatrist before,” Freddy says, still looking around in amazement. He looks to Hannah directly before continuing. “And I am unfortunately thorough, so you’re one of three I’m considering. It’s more or less a bake-off.” He shrugs slightly and laughs to relieve the tension in the room, but it doesn’t help.

 

Hannah smiles and nods in understanding. “I’m very supportive of bake-offs. It’s important you find someone you’re comfortable with.”

 

Freddy smiles, his grip around the strap of his bag tightening. “I can imagine you as my therapist, which is good. If I can’t visualize opening up emotionally, I know it would be a problem.”

 

“May I ask why now?”

 

Freddy breathes in, taking a second to think on how to avoid the question, his eyes cast down as he thinks of his next response. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions first?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“I love how much you’ve written on social exclusion. Since that’s why I’m here, I was-”

 

“Are you Freddy Lounds?” Hannah asks with an irritated tone, cutting him off quickly.

 

Freddy looks down at the floor with wide eyes, unable to fabricate a reasonable response.

 

“This is unethical, Mister Lounds, even for a tabloid journalist.”

 

“I… I am so embarrassed.” Freddy stammers, looking up for any hint of sympathy in Hannah’s face. Hannah closes her eyes and sighs in disappointment, and she opens her eyes and looks at Freddy before looking down at his bag. “I’m afraid I must ask for your bag.”

 

Freddy steps back in shock, blinking quickly. “What?”

 

“Your bag.” Hannah repeats, tone harsher and clearly irritated. “Please hand it over.” She looks sternly towards Freddy’s tight grip on the strap and continues with a forced smile, “I’d rather not be forced to take it from you.”

 

Freddy quickly slides his bag off his shoulder and holds it out to Hannah. She opens it, sifting through it to examine the contents. She looks up to Freddy expectantly for an explanation.

 

“I was recording our conversation.” Freddy says, defeated, motioning his arm weakly to his bag.

 

“Our conversation? Yours and mine?” Hannah presses on, knowing already that it was more than just their session he was around for.

 

“Yes.”

 

“No other conversation?”

 

“No.” Freddy insists, pushing his tongue in his cheek in annoyance and scrunching his brows.

 

Hannah latches the messenger bag closed carefully. “You were very persistent about your appointment time. How did you know when Willow Graham would be here?”

 

“I may have also recorded your session with Willow Graham.”

 

Hannah raises an eyebrow in amusement. “You didn’t answer the question. How did you know?”

 

“I can’t answer that question.” Freddy straightens his back and rolls back his shoulders to stand taller in any attempt to take up more space despite his short and skinny nature.

 

Hannah turns around, walking towards the baby blue couch against the wall. Once she’s seated, she pats the on the cushion next to her impatiently. “Come, sit by me.”

 

Freddy lingers for a second before making his way over next to Hannah. She opens his bag again, finding his recorder and pulling it out. She stops the current recording and hands the device over to Freddy. “Delete the conversations you have recorded. Doctor-patient confidentiality works both ways.”

 

Freddy rolls his eyes and snatches the recorder from her hands. He goes through and deletes the recordings, the room silent except for the few beeps of the device. He extends the recorder in his hand back towards Hannah hesitantly.

 

Hannah takes the recorder and drops it back into the leather messenger bag. She latches it closed once again and sets it next to her against the arm of the couch. “You’ve been terribly rude, Mister Lounds.” Hannah faces towards Freddy again and looks him in the eye before looking him up and down. “What’s to be done about that?”

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S HOUSE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Jacqueline Crawford sits at the table set for two and watches as Hannah pours a blood red sauce over her delicately presented plate. She pours the same over her own as she explains what she has prepared for the both of them. “Loin served with a Cumberland sauce of red fruits.”

 

“Loin. What kind?” Jacqueline inquires as she straightens the napkin that lays across her lap.

 

“Pork.” Hannah replies, stretching across the table to pour wine into both of the glasses. She sets the bottle aside on the table and adjusts her rolled white sleeves before she takes her seat across from Jacqueline.

 

“It’s rare I get a home-cooked meal. My husband and I both work. Our schedules always seem to clash and more often than not we’re eating separate take-out.” Jacqueline cuts a piece of her pork, pushing it onto her fork with the knife.

 

“Well, next time, bring your husband,” Hannah offers, scraping the sauce left on her knife onto her fork. “I’d love to have you both for dinner.”

 

“Thank you.” Jacqueline takes a bite of the fatty meat, nodding her head in satisfaction. “Mmm. Lovely. So, why do think Willow Graham came back to see you?”

 

Hannah finishes chewing and looks down towards the table. “I’m sure she recognizes the necessity of her own support structure if she is to go on supporting you in the field. Are you familiar with the workings of _your_ support?”

 

“I’ve already had my psych eval.”

 

“Not by me,” Hannah smiles, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve already started telling me about your husband. Why stop there?” Hannah holds her glass up to initiate a toast.

 

Jacqueline laughs as she clinks her glass against Hannah’s and takes a swig before setting the glass back down. Hannah takes a sip of hers and eyes it for a second before setting it back on the table and smiling towards Jacqueline.

 

* * *

 

**THE KINGSMITH MOTEL, ELKTON, MARYLAND **

 

Freddy Lounds brushes his teeth in the bathroom mirror, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he spits down the drain and rinses off his toothbrush. He cups one of his hands under the faucet and sips the water from his palm, swishing it between his cheeks before spitting it out again. He turns off the faucet, the handle squeaking as he does so, and he turns the light off as he leaves the bathroom. He pulls his t-shirt up to wipe his mouth with the bottom of it and starts to climb into bed before he hears a flurry of muffled footsteps outside his door. He’s silent and still when the footsteps stop at his motel room doorstep and the wooden floor creaks as he steps back out of bed and turns on the light.

 

As soon as the light is back on his door is kicked down and before he has time to react F.B.I agents swarm in and one of the men pins him face down on the bed and ties his hands with a ziptie. He then hauls Freddy up so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and he blows a stray curl out of his face when Jacqueline enters, glowering at the man.

 

“I appreciate the pageantry, Agent Crawford,” He says, cool as a cucumber under her harsh gaze, “But you can’t arrest me for writing an article.”

 

“You entered a federal crime scene without permission.”

 

“I was escorted by a detective.”

 

“Under false pretense.”

 

Freddy shrugs and blinks up at Jacqueline with a sly grin, “He should have been more thorough. Don’t blame me for the faults of your agents. And besides, I didn’t see any yellow tape around that cabin.”

 

“You lied.”

 

“And you can’t arrest me for lying.”

 

Jacqueline studies him with scrutiny for a while and figures empty threats won’t work on a man who knows his rights, so she tries a different angle.

 

“You got all of that information from one of _my_ detectives?”

 

“Lots of talk about Graham.”

 

“Clearly.”

 

Zeller listens from the corner of the room where other detectives stay, including Willow, who looks at Zeller’s blank expression scornfully like she knows what he did. Jacqueline takes tweezers from her pocket and plucks a stray hair from the shoulder of Freddy’s t-shirt. He watches her pass the tweezers off to a female agent, who leaves the room to get an evidence bag from a lab worker outside in the parking lot.

 

“You contaminated that crime scene. Everywhere you go, you contaminate the crime scenes. I can indict you for obstructing justice.”

 

Silence fills the air and Freddy leans forward with a forced smile, trying to hide his nerves with charm, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t.”

 

“Don’t write another word about Willow Graham and I won’t have to.”

 

The agents file out of the room, save for Zeller who mutters to Jacqueline that he can handle getting him untied. Jacqueline pats him on his shoulder on her way out and he approaches Freddy, gentle to guide him so his arms are pushed away from his back despite Freddy having wronged him. He cuts the ties and Freddy moves his wrists to his front immediately to rub the red skin where the ziptie had been tied on too tight for his liking.

 

“You used me.” Zeller says, his voice tinged with regret. Freddy only shrugs and scoots back on the bed, lying against his pillows as he looks up at Zeller’s betrayed expression in amusement.

 

“Well, if you weren’t going to give me good head I might as well get _something_ out of the experience.”

 

Shocked, Zeller’s eyes go wide and his face quickly turns red, any hurt in his expression now masked with embarrassment. Unable to find the will to reply, he just turns and slowly makes his way back to the door to rejoin his colleagues in the parking lot.

 

“Turn the lights out on your way, will you? You all kept me up past my bedtime.”

 

* * *

 

**JOHNS HOPKINS HOSPITAL, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Willow is sound asleep on the couch across from Abraham Hobbs’ bed, her brown oxfords kicked off on the tile floor in front of the couch and her neck craned painfully against the arm. The sound of soft clicking approaches Willow and she stirs a bit in her sleep at the sound. When Alan Bloom enters with his coat over his arm and a book in the samehand, he slips out of his black loafers to walk silently across the room. He stops and puts his shoes next to Willow’s and covers her with his black coat before he goes to the edge of Abraham’s bed and opens his book.

 

Willow awakes to the sound of Alan’s soft, silvery voice reading a story aloud to Abraham. She stirs and opens her eyes slowly, blinking to let her eyes adjust to the soft light filtering in through the blinds and hitting her cheek. She blinks slowly, enveloped in the warmth and the comforting smell of Alan’s coat. It takes her a minute to register his words and she duly notes the steady beep of the heart monitor, eased knowing that Abraham’s in a stable condition.

 

“What are you reading?” She asks, sleep thick and deep in her voice.

 

Alan stops and turns to look at Willow with a soft smile on his face, holding the book up over his shoulder before speaking, “ _To Kill A Mockingbird._ I used to be obsessed with this book when I was Abraham’s age.”

 

“You could be reading to a killer.”

 

“Innocent until proven guilty.”

 

Willow yawns silently and sits up on the couch, putting her socked feet back down on the cool tile floor and fixing Alan’s coat over her lap. Alan closes his book and sets it aside, twisting to look at Willow fully.

 

“Did Jacqueline send you?”

 

“I sent me.”

 

“We haven’t ever been alone in a room together, have we?”

 

“Have we not? I haven’t noticed. Not that we’re necessarily alone though.” He says, nodding to the comatose teen behind him. He clears his throat, thick eyebrows scrunched together in thought before he looks at Willow in concern and speaks again, “Sorry I woke you.”

 

“It’s alright. Honestly, I was enjoying listening to you read.”

 

Alan smiles sincerely and glances at Abraham, “Abraham Hobbs is a success for you.”

 

“He doesn’t look like a success.”

 

“Don’t feel bad. You did all you could and you saved this boy’s life.”

 

“I don’t feel bad. Not at all. I feel good, actually, like killing Hobbs was just.”

 

* * *

  
  
**HANNAH LECTER’S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

“Killing Hobbs felt just.”

 

“Which is why you’re here. To prove that sprig of zest you feel is from saving Abraham, not killing his dad. If your intention was to kill him on the first shot, it was because you understand why he did the things he did. It’s beautiful in it’s own way.” Hannah pauses as Willow turns around to face her, and she makes eye contact as directly as possible. “Giving voice to the unmentionable.”

 

“I should have stuck to fixing boat motors in Louisiana.” Willow sighs as she looks away and moves to sit down in the leather chair nearest to Hannah.

 

Hannah smirks and rests her hands against the desk. “A boat engine is a machine. An easy and predictable problem to solve. You fail, and there’s always a paddle. Where was your paddle with Hobbs, Willow?” She pushes herself off the desk and moves to sit in the chair across from Willow.

 

“You were supposed to be my paddle.” Willow insists.

 

“I am,” Hannah assures, “It wasn’t the act of killing Hobbs that got you down, was it?” She rests her elbows on her knees so she’s leaned closer to Willow and her gaze goes cold. “Did you really feel so bad because killing him felt so good?”

 

“I liked killing Hobbs.” Willow’s voice is quiet and broken, her eyes downcast and her hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly.

 

“Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time,” Hannah leans back in her seat again, “And are we not created in His image?”

 

“Depends on who you ask.”

 

“God’s terrific. He dropped a church roof on thirty-four of His worshippers last Wednesday night in Texas, while they sang a hymn.”

 

“Did God feel good about that?” Willow looks up from the ground and up to Hannah for confirmation. Her voice is shaky and unsure, but not as quiet as before.

 

“He felt powerful.”

 

* * *

 

**PORT HAVEN PSYCHIATRIC FACILITY, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

_Light filters through leaves and branches, hitting the dewy grass below as Abraham steps forward, boot crunching against a twig. The white-tailed doe raises her head in the distance, listening curiously. It’s eerily quiet for a long moment and when she goes back to eating grass a bullet grazes her ear, taking a chunk out. She runs deeper into the forest and Garret Jacob Hobbs lowers his gun with a disappointed sigh through his nose. Abraham looks to him apologetically and his father pats his shoulder, silently assuring him he isn’t upset with him._

 

_He hands his son the rifle and he aims, looking through the scope with one eye closed at the doe who’s now resting. She raises her head again and looks at the hunters, and Abraham starts to squeeze the trigger but his father puts a hand on his back._

 

_“Wait for the shot.”_

 

_Abraham nods and takes a deep breath, holding it and listening to his heart pound in his ears. He shoots and the deer drops and he returns the gun to Garret Jacob Hobbs. He isn’t as excited as his father about the kill._

 

_They find the doe and Garret Jacob Hobbs hauls her corpse to his truck, dumping it in the bed as Abraham climbs up in the passenger seat. He stares off distantly at the forest in front of the truck, shivering against the cold morning atmosphere inside the vehicle. His father gets in and starts the truck, and Abraham watches the tree shaped air freshener dangling from the mirror shake as they ride down the dirt path back to the cabin._

 

_Abraham holds the door open while Garret Jacob Hobbs carries the doe inside, slinging her back over his shoulder to drop her on the skinning table. Abraham turns on the lights and takes off his gloves and his field glasses, setting them down as he rolls up his sleeves. He runs his fingers through the soft fur on her belly, watching his father get the knives from the overhanging cabinet out the corner of his eye._

 

_“She was so pretty…”_

 

_“She is so pretty.”_

 

_“Aren’t deer supposed to be like complex emotional creatures? I read somewhere that their minds are equivalent to a four year old child’s.”_

 

_“They’re smarter than a four year old.”_

 

_Abraham steps back with a teasing smile, watching his father tie down the creature to the table. “So I just killed a really smart four year old. Like a prodigy. Dad, I could have killed the deer that was gonna solve global warming!”_

 

_Hobbs laughs and shakes his head fondly, “Don’t tell your mother.”_

 

_Once Hobbs finishes securing her, Abraham looks at the doe with sympathy once more, unable to tear his gaze away from her dark eyes._

 

_“They’re a lot like us. They tread lightly through underbrush because they don’t want to hurt the plants. They care about the environment and they care about each other.”_

 

_“They’re a lot like us so we’re going to honor every last bit of her. Her hide will make a beautiful rug and her bones we can sharpen into knives. None of her will go to waste.”_

 

_Hobbs presses the hilt of the knife to his son’s palm and Abraham grips it, looking at his father with uncertainty. Nevertheless, he doesn’t want to disappoint him, so he steps forward and presses his knuckles gently against the doe’s still warm hide._

 

_“I don’t know how I’m going to feel about eating her after all of this.”_

 

_“Eating her is honoring her, Abraham. Otherwise it’s just murder.” Hobbs grits out harshly and Abraham’s eyes widen as he looks at his father over his shoulder one last time before he plunges the knife into her sternum._

 

The psychiatric facility is upscale and comfortable, a quilt over his sleeping body rather than the scratchy hospital blanket. The walls are painted baby blue and there are flowers on the wooden bedside table to his left. His heart monitor beeps rhythmically on his right, the respirator by his bed hissing loudly as it pumps oxygen through the tube down his throat.

 

The rhythmic beeping on his heart monitor picks up suddenly, bright green line jotting up and down and the number going up by nearly thirty beats. His eyes snap open and he gasps, taking in his surroundings in a panic as he coughs and chokes on the tube down his throat and works at yanking the oximeter off his finger, tears rolling down his cheeks as the heart monitor flatlines without a pulse to read. He rips out the other wires and intravenous tubes pushed in his arm, hands flying up to his throat where he feels it bandage wrapped and stitched. He’s shaken from his nightmare and disoriented, not knowing where he is or how he got there. All he can remember is the sounds of gunshot ringing ten times in his ear and cold, slender fingers wrapping around his throat calmly before everything faded to black.

 

* * *

 

**WILLOW GRAHAM’S HOUSE, WOLF TRAP, VIRGINIA**

 

Willow steps out on her front porch wearing only a white t-shirt and a pair of black panties, hair tousled from just having woken up. Her dogs come running out from the living room and all head towards the road, and when she looks up to call them all back away from the street she realizes she isn’t alone. Alan kneels to greet the dogs, scratching behind Winston’s ears and cooing at the rest of them sweetly before he stands back up.

 

“Good morning, Willow.”

 

“I didn’t hear you drive up.”

 

“Hybrid. Great cars for sneaking.” He says with a nod to the dark blue car behind him and watches Willow take a step back towards her doorway.

 

“I… I feel compelled to go cover myself.”

 

“I grew up with eight sisters.” Alan holds his hands up in defense and smiles lightly.

 

“I’ll still put on a robe. Would you like a cup of coffee? Oh, and uh, more importantly, why are you here?”

 

“I’d love a cup. … Abraham Hobbs woke up.” Alan says and watches Willow turn and whistle for the dogs to come back inside, her motions slowing to a complete stop as the mutts bolt past her into the kitchen. He continues, “Do you want me to get _you_ a cup of coffee?”

 

“No, I want to get my coat.”

 

“Willow…” Alan begins as he walks towards her house, footsteps making the porch floorboards creak and bow under his weight as he puts a hand on her shoulder pityingly, “Let’s go sit down and have coffee.”

 

Willow nods slowly and is ushered inside her own home, and Alan closes the door behind him and turns on the overhead lights. Willow mutters something about changing under her breath and Alan goes to her kitchen, taking a seat at the small table and greeting one of the dogs who stands on her hind legs to put her paws up on the edge of his chair. Willow comes back after a few minutes in her typical ensemble of ill-fitting jeans that hug her thighs but are too loose at her waist and a green flannel that does just as little to flatter her figure.

 

She pours them coffee, the pot already hot from her brewing it before Alan arrived, and mixes in sugar and creamer and sets the mismatched mugs on the table before sitting across from him. Fatigue settles in her aching muscles and she takes a sip of the hot drink out of her gaudy ceramic mug with cartoon alligators on it her mother had given her as a going away present. She thinks it’s tacky but it’s still admittedly her favorite.

 

Her cell phone on the table between them buzzes for what must be the fourth time since they sat down, but Willow ignores it as she gulps her coffee. She sets her mug down and glances at the lit up screen of her smartphone, sighing to herself.

 

“Is she going to keep calling?”

 

“Jacqueline wants you to go see him.”

 

“And you don’t.”

 

“Not yet. I think when you see Abraham it should be on your own accord and when you’re both ready. I’m concerned about you getting what you need and Abraham getting what he needs. What Jacqueline needs is… less of a priority to me.” He jokes with a smile, hidden by the rim of his own cracked yellow mug. Willow smiles at his honesty, watching Alan take a sip before continuing, “I don’t want to get in the middle of you and Jacqueline, but if you think I could be a buffer-”

 

“I like you as a buffer,” Willow quickly defends, “I like the way you rattle Jacqueline. She respects you too much to yell at you, no matter how much she wants to.”

 

“And I take advantage of that as much as possible.”

 

Willow breaks their eye contact and looks at her buzzing phone again, picking up her mug again and taking another long drink before broaching the topic she’s most concerned about.

 

“Abraham Hobbs doesn’t have anyone.”

 

“And you can’t be his everyone. You don’t have to draw a line, but it may be beneficial to know where the line could be.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

Alan pauses to think of a lighter way to phrase his next words, setting his cup down on the table and leaning back in his chair. His tucked in button up pulls tight against his chubby belly and his eyebrows scrunch in thought.

 

“When I thought of what I was going to say, it sounded insulting. I’m going to try to reword it.”

 

“Say it the insulting way.”

 

He looks up at her and sighs, “... Dogs can keep promises humans can’t.”

 

“Right…” Her voice trails off and she looks at the man across from her again, “I can trust my dogs to be dogs but I can’t trust Abraham Hobbs to be the boy I think he is. But I’m not collecting another stray, Alan.”

  
“The first person Abraham sees when he wakes up can’t be anyone who was there when it happened. That means no Doctor Lecter either.” Alan sits up straight in his chair and holds the worn out mug between his hands again.

 

“Much less the woman who killed his father…”

 

“Let me reach out to him in my own way.” He takes the last swig of his coffee, looking down in the empty cup before setting it on the table.

 

“That child psychology degree of yours is finally coming in handy.”

 

* * *

 

**PORT HAVEN PSYCHIATRIC FACILITY, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Alan enters Abraham’s room as quietly as possible given the circumstances, setting down his armfuls of paper shopping bags down on the floor in front of the boy’s bedside table. Abraham looks up at him and offers a weak smile, eyes vacant and tired. Alan smiles warmly in reply before explaining himself, “Hi. I’m Alan Bloom.”

 

“Are you a doctor?”

 

“Not in medicine.” Alan slides his overcoat off, folding it over his arm and straightening any bumps.

 

“What’s your speciality?”

 

“Among other things, child psychology.”

 

Abraham’s quiet for a long moment and sets the book he was reading face down on his lap. “I asked the nurses if my parents were dead but they wouldn’t answer me. They said I had to wait for you.”

 

Alan sits on the edge of his bed with an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry you had to wait.”

 

“It’s okay, I already know they’re dead.”

 

Alan studies him for a moment and mulls over his reply to the admission, but before he can find the right words he watches Abraham’s lip quiver as he fights back tears.

 

“Who buried them?”

 

“They haven’t been buried.”

 

“Don’t you think they should be?”

 

“Your mother was cremated per the request of her will.”

 

“And my dad?”

 

“Your father is… a bit more complicated.” Alan runs his hand along a crooked fold in the jacket across his lap, keeping his gaze towards Abraham.

 

“Because he was crazy?”

 

Alan’s eyebrows furrow in concern as he processes. “The nurses said you didn’t remember.”

 

“I do, I just didn’t want to talk to _them_ about it.” He says almost scornfully before he picks up the overturns book on his lap and holds it up. “Is this your book?”

 

Alan smiles and takes it, folding the corner of the page and running his palm across the worn front cover of it. “I was reading this to you.”

 

“I started flipping through the pages and it felt like I’d read it before. I remember your voice and…” His voice trails off and he turns his head to make eye contact with the man, “You could have been reading to a killer, you know?”

 

Alan realizes he’s quoting Willow and shakes his head, but before he has a chance to reply Abraham’s already on another topic, looking out the window down to the flower gardens below. “I want to sell the house. I guess it’s mine now. I can… I can figure out where to live until I graduate high school then use the money to pay for college.” His face falls when his orphanage dawns on him and considers where he’ll live for the next year. He shakes off the thought and looks back over to the colorful paper bags all over the floor and nods to them, “What are those?”

 

“I brought some clothes for you. Figured a change might feel nice. I guessed your size, so anything you don’t want I can return. I brought you some music too.”

 

Abraham grins and lets out a tiny, exhausted laugh, “ _Your_ music?”

 

“I know, I know. If you don’t like my Prince CD I also have a stack of iTunes gift cards. Well, uh, I have a stack of gift cards. I’m not too great at redeeming them.”

 

That gets another laugh out of Abraham and he leans back against his pillows that are propped up against the headboard. “That probably says something about you.”

 

“I’m sure it does.” Alan smiles warmly as he pats the boy’s leg through the covers.

 

* * *

 

**BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

Jacqueline paces behind her desk impatiently, brooding over the right ways to phrase her statements. The last thing she wants to handle today is a heated argument about the situation a teenage boy is in, since she’s already under enough stress. She finally sits down at her desk in front of Hannah Lecter and Alan Bloom, who sit patiently waiting for a lecture.

 

“I have _seven_ families waiting, no let me rephrase, _demanding_ we find whatever’s left of their sons. Abraham Hobbs is the only person I could ask who might know the truth.” Jacqueline’s motioning her hands quickly to try and convey her urgency. She looks to the both of them, expecting a response.

 

“You can’t ask him right now! Do you really think he’s stable enough to be bombarded with those kinds of questions?” Alan leans forward in his seat, his volume rising in defense.

 

“I appreciate your sympathy for him, Doctor Bloom.” Jacqueline sighs and her office chair squeaks as she leans back. So much for an easy conversation. Her tone becomes harsher and her gaze towards Alan hardens as she continues. “Maybe one day you’ll appreciate my lack of it. The only body we found is the one Hobbs didn’t eat. Seven bodies. Seven boys.”

 

“Seven brothers in Abraham’s mind once he learns of his father’s crimes.” Hannah chimes in vacantly, her gaze fixated on a map of the United States behind Jacqueline. The other two look towards her expecting more, but move on when she stays silent.

 

“May already know about it. His DNA’s all over the slaughterhouse.”

 

“You _really_ think that this- this _child_ helped his father kill those boys?” Alan stammers in disbelief at what he’s hearing and uncrosses his legs and sits forward, his hands gripped on the arms of the chair.

 

“It’s a possibility that needs to be ruled out, Alan. If he didn’t help his father, he may know someone who might have.”

 

Hannah looks over to Alan and smiles dryly, cutting Jacqueline off, “How was the Hobbs boy when you saw him?”

 

“Surprisingly practical.” Alan sits back in his chair, sighing. His frustration recedes and he looks from Hannah to Jacqueline quickly, checking the older woman’s expression. “Suspiciously practical?” Jacqueline questions, bracing her elbows on her desk and leaning forward.

 

“I would suggest one can be practical without being a murderer.” Hannah says and Jacqueline squints over her coffee mug as she takes a sip. “He could be hiding something.”

 

“It could just be his trauma, Jacqueline.” Alan suggests, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

 

“Or something more.” Hannah adds, her eyes wandering along the shelves of books that span the whole back wall.

 

Alan leans back in his chair and looks down towards his lap in defeat. “He withheld information to get information. He showed only enough emotions to prove he had any.”

 

“Appreciating my lack of sympathy now?” Jacqueline smiles and laces her fingers together.

 

“Providing a psychological evaluation.”

 

“You claim he’s hiding something yet you refuse to believe he has any involvement with his father’s crimes?” Hannah breaks her thoughtful gaze and looks to Alan questioningly.

 

“I’m just questioning his state of mind. He repeated something Willow said to me in his presence while he was unconscious.” Alan avoids any eye contact with Hannah and only looks in her general direction.

 

Hannah raises her eyebrows interest and leans to the side of her chair towards Alan. “Leading you to believe he wasn’t.”

 

“Leading me to believe it was unusual.” Alan says with a click of his tongue.

 

“I want Willow Graham to talk to him.” Jacqueline interrupts, looking down to her coffee thoughtfully.

 

“Jacqueline. Not yet.” Alan sits forward in the same manner as before, but this time his tone is harsher.

 

Jacqueline sighs, her coffee mug clinking on her wood desk as she sets it down. “Doctor Bloom, you aren’t her psychiatrist.” She shifts her hard gaze on Alan over to Hannah. “Doctor Lecter is.”

 

“Perhaps, but I’m not entirely objective of this situation. Willow and I share a compassion for this boy.” Hannah looks to both Jacqueline and Alan before finishing her statement. “We saved his life.”

 

* * *

 

**PORT HAVEN PSYCHIATRIC FACILITY, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

“So… You aren’t a doctor, or a nurse, or a psychiatrist.” Abraham says slowly, trying to wrap his head around the situation. He sits upright and alert on his bed, skeptical of this man’s intentions.

 

Freddy Lounds smiles from where he’s sitting on the edge of Abraham’s bed, shaking his head and speaking in a smooth, honeyed voice, “I’m a journalist. I want to get your story out there.”

 

“Sounds fishy.”

 

“If you tell me what you know I can help you fill in the blanks.”

 

“Why don’t you just tell me what you know first?” Abraham squints and sits back against his pillows.

 

“Well,” Freddy begins with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling as he tries to find a gentle way to phrase this, “Your father was the Minnesota Shrike. Your mother wasn’t the first person he killed. He killed eight boys who looked-”

 

“Just like me.” Abraham finishes quietly, and Freddy nods his head in confirmation. “Why are they calling him the Shrike?”

 

“Shrikes are birds who impale their prey to harvest their organs to eat later.”

 

“He was eating them?”

 

“He was sick.”

Abraham looks away from Freddy and to the floor quickly, his eyes blinking fast to fight away tears and his voice wavering when he speaks again, “Does that mean I’m sick too?”

 

“You’re going to fight that perception. How others view you is the most important thing in your life right now.”

  
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

 

“You better start caring, Abraham.” Freddy pauses for a moment to take a deep breath and hold back his bitterness. He looks to the ceiling before looking back to the boy and continuing. “What you remember, or what you choose to say about what you remember, is going to live with you the rest of your life. Let me help you make a path for you so you can survive what your father put you through without being held accountable.”

 

Abraham looks around the room and takes a deep breath. “How did they catch him?”

 

“A woman named Willow Graham caught him. She works for the F.B.I, but isn’t part of the bureau because she’s too unstable to pass screening tests. She can catch the insane by thinking like they do.” Freddy pauses for a quick moment when he hears the door creak open and the sound of heels clicking on the wood. “Because she is insane.”

 

Abraham’s gaze trails to the doorway where Hannah and Willow stand, and Freddy sits up and looks up at the woman with a wry smile. “Speak of the devil.”

 

“Would you please excuse us?”

 

Freddy eyes Willow distrustfully for a moment before standing obediently and turning back to Abraham, fishing a business card out of the messenger bag hung at his side and holding it out for the brunet to take. “If you want to talk-” He begins, but he’s cut off when Willow walks towards Abraham’s bed and snatches the card out of his hand before the teenager can even begin to reach for it.

 

Freddy turns to her and opens his mouth to say something snarky and defensive, but he stops himself when Hannah walks towards him and puts a firm hand on his right shoulder.

 

“Mister Lounds, I must insist you leave the room.”

 

Freddy turns and looks at the taller woman leerily, but leaves without another word. Willow waits until she hears the door click shut and Freddy’s quiet footsteps grow distant as he walks down the hallway before she turns to Abraham.

 

Willow folds her glasses and slides them into her coat pocket. “Abraham, this is Doctor Lecter…” She pauses to gather her thoughts, looking into the boy’s doe-like blue eyes regretfully. “Do you remember us?”

 

“I remember you. You killed my dad.”

 

Willow blinks and nods her head slowly in agreement, letting that statement linger heavy in the air as her eyes trail away from the boy and over to the flowers on the bedside table. Hannah takes a step forward and puts a hand on Willow’s waist in silent support, offering Abraham a warm smile.

 

“Abraham, you’ve been in bed for three weeks. Why don’t we have a walk?”

 

They walk through the facility’s gardens, Abraham walking slowly and weakly with his arm linked with Hannah’s for support. The trio stops for a break when Abraham gets dizzy and he and Willow sit on a wooden bench in front of large, overgrown flower bushes.

 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save your mother. We did everything we could, but it was too late.”

 

“It’s alright.” Abraham says, but his voice cracks and he clears his throat aloud to hide the fact that he’s close to tears. His eyes sting and his throat feels tight as he bites back a sob, and Hannah offers him a sympathetic look when she notices this.

 

“There is no vocabulary in your mind to properly articulate this violence.”

 

“Didn’t seem real. He was loving right up until the moment… he wasn’t. He kept telling me to just hold still, that he’d make it all go away.”

 

“I believe it. Love was what you brought out in him.” Willow assures, but Abraham’s gaze falls to the stone path beneath his feet.

 

“Did he tell you about the young men he murdered?” Hannah asks and Willow jerks her head to look up at the woman in disbelief. Abraham’s shoulders tense and he sniffs back a sob, and Willow turns to comfort him quickly, patting his back. “You don’t have to answer that.”

 

“But you will need to answer them eventually.”

 

“I’m… I’m going to be all messed up, aren’t I? I’m scared of the nightmares.”

 

“We’ll help you with the nightmares.”

 

“I can’t imagine what you must be feeling. I keep replaying that morning over and over again in my mind, and…” Willow’s voice trails off when Abraham finally breaks down and sobs, tears streaking his pale cheeks and his eyes looking vacant as he stares off into the horizon. She continues, “I’m scared of my nightmares too.”

 

“Is it scary killing someone? Even when you know you have to?”

 

“Scariest thing in the world.”

 

Hannah looks down at the duo from where she’s standing next to the bench, smirking when she looks at Willow because she knows she isn’t telling the entire truth. Abraham lets Willow’s words set and he finally sits up straight and sniffles, wiping his tears and his snotty nose with the sleeve of his red sweater.

 

“I want to go home.”

 

On that note, Hannah figures they won’t be able to squeeze any information out of him and will only succeed in making the teen more uncomfortable, so she suggests they go back inside. Once inside, she checks her watch impatiently while Abraham gets tucked back into bed and Willow says her goodbyes. They make their way out to the parking lot together, and Hannah scowls when she sees Freddy Lounds leaning against the hood of her white Bentley. Willow takes her glasses out of the right pocket of her grey jacket and puts them on, pushing them down so the top rim blocks Freddy’s eyes from her own so she can’t make eye contact. Freddy stands up straight as the women approach and he smiles.

 

“Special Agent Graham, I don’t believe I’ve ever formally introduced myself. I’m Freddy Lounds.”

 

“Trying to save yourself?” Willow scoffs, shoving her hands in her coat pocket.

 

“Please, let me apologize for my behavior in there. It was unprofessional and misguided.”

 

“Mister Lounds, now is not the time.” Hannah forces a smile, interrupting Freddy’s practiced speech.

 

Freddy hesitantly looks away from Hannah and to Willow before continuing his explanation quickly. “You and I may have different reasons for seeing Abraham Hobbs but I can assure you I have good intentions. I want to help both of you.”

 

“So, what? You make me seem like more than his father’s killer and I help you with online ad sales? You told him I was _insane_.”

 

“And I can un-do that. I can also make it a lot worse.”

 

“Mister Lounds,” Willow takes a few steps forward so she’s barely a half-a-foot away from Freddy, “It’s not very smart to piss off the woman who thinks about killing people for a living.”

 

* * *

 

**BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

“ _It’s not very smart to piss off the woman who thinks about killing people for a living._ ”

 

Jacqueline looks up from her desktop where the Tattler article is pulled up. Willow sits directly in front of her, with Alan to her right and Hannah to her left. “You know what else isn’t very smart?” She looks to Alan and Willow first, and then Hannah to address her directly. “You were there with her. And you let those words come out of her mouth.”

 

Hannah lifts her head from where she was resting her chin on her knuckles, but still stays relaxed. “I trust Willow to speak for herself.”

 

“Evidently you shouldn’t.”

 

“I’m just happy the story wasn’t about Abraham Hobbs.” Alan chimes in, shrugging slightly.

 

“Well, then, it’s a victory.” Jacqueline snaps her head towards him and nods condescendingly.

 

Willow breathes in deeply and sighs as her boss continues, feeling guilty and letting her gaze drop to the carpet beneath her chair. “So, Abraham Hobbs wants to go home. Let’s take him home.” Jacqueline suggests and Alan scoffs, annoyed. “What Abraham wants and what he needs are two completely different things. Taking him out of a controlled environment would be reckless.”

 

“You said he was practical.”

 

“That could just mean he has a dissociative disorder.” Willow comments quietly, but no one acknowledges it.

 

“You take him home, he may experience intense emotions, respond aggressively, or reenact some aspect of the traumatic event without even realizing it.” Alan defends, his volume rising as his statement develops. He shoots Hannah a quick look for her confirmation, which she doesn’t give.

 

Jacqueline looks to Hannah as well, who’s looking forward in thought. “Where do you weigh in on this, Doctor?”

 

She straightens her posture and looks to Alan as she speaks. “Doctor Bloom is right. But there is a scenario where revisiting the trauma event could help Abraham heal and actually prevent denial.”

 

Alan shakes his head and straightens his pant leg as he leans back in the chair. “Then we have a difference of opinions,” Jacqueline looks to both Alan and Hannah. “Therefore, I am going to choose the opinion that best serves my agenda.” Alan quickly shakes his head, already knowing who Jacqueline will favor. Jacqueline looks straight to Willow, who sits with her eyes low in thought. “I need to know if you’re right about the copycat, Willow.”

 

“If the copycat called the Hobbs residence before the murders?” Hannah questions and Jacqueline nods solemnly in response.

 

“We have no way of knowing what’s waiting for him when he goes home.” Alan says, admitting defeat. Hannah looks away from the group and her expression changes from thoughtful to displeased, her fingers twitching where they rest against her chin.

 

* * *

 

**COFFEE BAR, BLOOMINGTON, MINNESOTA**

 

“Thanks for meeting with me, I know this hasn’t been easy for you.” Freddy says as he slides into the chair across from Nick Boyle, setting the man’s coffee cup down in front of him and taking a sip of his own. Nick keeps his gaze fixed on the table and scoffs before sitting up straighter and taking his cup in his hands.

 

“How would you know?”

 

“I’ve been writing about Garret Jacob Hobbs. I’ve spoken to the families of the other victims.”

 

“Hobbs is dead, but he deserved a lot more. Him and his whole family.”

 

“There must be some comfort in knowing justice has been served.”

 

Nick laughs bitterly, “Comfort? My little brother got impaled on a stag’s head. Cut down the middle. He took his lungs out while he was still breathing.”

 

“I’m sorry, I am, but you have to try not to remember him that way.”

 

Nick leans in towards Freddy and squints, getting tired of the conversation already. “What do you want from me?”

 

“I just thought you should know Abraham Hobbs woke up from his coma.”

 

* * *

 

**HOBBS RESIDENCE, BLOOMINGTON, MINNESOTA**

 

An expensive blue rental car drives up the gravel driveway of the small house, Hannah Lecter in the driver’s seat and the other passengers silent as she turns off the car. The four doors open and Hannah, Willow, Abraham, and Alan all collectively get out of the car and approach the house. Abraham slowly looks over to the front of house where the word “CANNIBALS” is sprawled across in black spray paint, but he looks back down, seemingly unaffected by the graffiti, and walks slowly towards the front porch. Willow follows him and Abraham stops when he reaches the rust-colored stain on the concrete. He laughs uncomfortably with tears forming in his eyes. “I... was expecting a body outline in chalk or tape.”

 

“They only do that if you’re still alive and taken to the hospital before they finish a crime scene.”

 

Abraham turns and looks at Willow with wide eyes like her response was startling even though he was addressing her directly. He looks back down at the stain and sniffles, trying to play it off like he’s cold by stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “Bye, mom.”

 

Willow opens the front door and the group walks in together, the three adults standing idly in the living room as Abraham wanders the familiar room. He approaches the fireplace, fingers picking at the corner of one of the backwards family photos in a stand-up frame. “They turned all the pictures around.”

 

“Crime scene cleaners will do that… Abraham, if you want to leave just let me know and we’ll go.” Alan says and Abraham laughs, stepping over the trail of blood going to the door to go into the kitchen as he calls back, “Where? To the hospital?”

 

“For now.”

 

Abraham ignores him and looks down to the floor where a faint pink stain is, and he raises an eyebrow, “They did a really good job. Is that where all my blood was?”

 

“Yes.” Willow says as she comes into the kitchen behind him, leaning on the doorway.

 

“You do this all the time? Go places and think about killing?”

 

“Too often. I pretended to be your dad and people like him.”

 

“What... did it feel like? To be him?”

 

Alan and Hannah come in the kitchen, Alan standing by the fridge and Hannah brushing past Willow to lean on the counter. Rustled by the interaction, Willow takes a moment to gather her thoughts. “It felt like… You were really my son, and your mother...”

 

Abraham looks at her expectantly and she continues carefully, and Alan watches her, tense as he taps his fingers against the counter behind him. “The attacks on you and your mother, they were different. Desperate. Your dad knew he was out of time. Someone told him we were coming-”

 

“The woman on the phone?” Abraham asks urgently and Willow raises her eyebrows in surprise.

 

“It was a blocked call. Did you recognize her voice?”

 

“I’d never heard it before.” Abraham says nervously, gaze shifting to Hannah quickly before he looks back at Willow.

 

“He may have been contacted by another serial killer, a copycat.”

 

“Someone who’s still out there?”

 

“Yes.”

 

When Abraham feels overwhelmed, they all step outside for a break. Abraham scrubs the graffiti from the side of the house, Alan and Willow on either side of him. All three work at cleaning off the black letters with sponges and Hannah delivers a bucket of soapy water, careful not to spill it on her expensive heels. She sighs and finds a spot to stand near the group, not even considering helping them with the laborious work, but she eyes Willow when she pulls back to push up the sleeves of her blue flannel.

 

“Can you catch somebody’s crazy?” Abraham asks, sitting back on his haunches and looking over at Alan and Willow.

 

“Folie à Deux.” Alan replies.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s a French psychiatric term. ‘Madness shared by two.’”

 

Hannah approaches the group as she explains, “One can not be delusional if the belief in question is accepted as ordinary by others in that person’s culture or subculture. Or family.”

 

“My dad didn’t seem delusional. He was a perfectionist. After he skinned a deer, he would pluck the loose hair. Most people use a torch. Dad would remove all the hair by hand. He wanted to make sure he got every one of them.”

 

“Your dad left almost no evidence.” Willow says, standing and wiping her soapy hands on her jeans and brushing loose curls out of her face. “It’s one of the reasons why we brought you back.”

 

Abraham sets his sponge down in the bucket of water. “Are we going to re-enact the crime? You can be my mom and dad,” He looks to both Alan and Willow before directing his gaze to Hannah and continuing, “And you can be the woman on the phone.”

 

Hannah’s caught off-guard by the teenager’s almost accusing statement, her usual stoic composure faltering as his stare lingers.

 

“We wanted you to come home to help you leave home behind.” Alan says, clearly displeased by the direction this conversation has taken.

 

“You’re not going to find any of those boys, you know.”

 

“Why do you say that?” Willow questions, eyebrows furrowed and head tilted as she makes eye contact with the boy.

 

“He’d honor every part of them. Made plumbers putty out of elk bones. At least that’s what he told us. You know, to seal threads. Whatever bones were left of those boys is probably holding pipes together.”

 

Willow opens her mouth to say something, eyes wide in surprise at Abraham’s dismissive approach to the subject of his father’s crimes, but Alan stops her as he stands at last. He looks to the woods behind the house where another teenage boy approaches the group slowly. “Abraham… There’s someone here.”

 

“Hey, Abe.” The boy says and Abraham looks up and gives him a genuine smile, tired eyes bright for the first time since the incident.

 

“Hey!”

 

Abraham and Maurice Schuur walk along the stream in the Hobbs’ backyard, feet crunching the dry leaves of the forest floor. Maurice looks up from where he was kicking pebbles into the water and nods to Abraham’s bandaged neck. “Does it hurt?”

 

“Yeah, sometimes.” Abraham says sheepishly, rubbing the bandaged wound through his thick plaid scarf.

 

“Everybody on the block was on the news and then everybody at school. Whores.” Maurice says spitefully, face scrunched in disapproval as he kicks another rock into the tepid water.

 

“I wish I could see it. They won’t let me online.”

 

“You don’t want to be online. It’s all ‘The family that preys together stays together.’ But prey is with an ‘E’ instead of an ‘A’ because --”

 

“Did you talk to the news?” Abraham interrupts and Maurice closes his mouth, humming thoughtfully as he runs his fingers through his short dark brown hair.

 

“No. My mom doesn’t want me talking to you, much less the news.” Maurice checks over his shoulder for any signs of his mother searching for him.

 

“Since when do you listen to her?” Abraham asks with an eyebrow raised in amusement and they laugh together before Abraham clears his throat and prods, “Do you think I did it?”

 

“...I don’t think you’re the type. But then again I didn’t think your dad was the type, either. Although, the hunting should have been a clue.”

 

“Mine or his?”

 

“Now that you’re mentioning it, both I guess.” Maurice says with a shrug and Abraham looks down at the mud beneath his feet in silence and when Maurice sees that he’s hurt his friend he backtracks. “I don’t think you did it, though.”

 

“I do.” A man’s voice says and both boys snap their gazes back up across the stream where Nick Boyle stands by the woods, clad in a brown jacket and jeans. His red hair is disheveled and his eyes are wild.

 

“This is private property!” Abraham shouts and takes a step back, startled.

 

“You were the bait. Is that how it worked? Lure ‘em back to daddy for dinner?”

 

Maurice bends down and grabs a stone from the edge of the stream. “Piss. Off.” He chucks it towards Nick, who avoids it swiftly. “You help dad cut out my brother’s lungs while he was still using them?” Nick smirks, but his expression quickly falls as the second rock Maurice throws hits his forehead. He lifts his hand slowly to the small gash, stumbling in silence. He glares at Maurice with murder in his eyes before his gaze trails up to the hill and he turns and cuts back through the woods quickly.

 

The two boys turn around to see Hannah and Willow making their way down the hill to them, Alan and Maurice’s mother following behind. Abraham turns back to where Nick stood, but he’s already gone.

 

“Who was that?” Hannah asks and Abraham and Maurice step closer to her as if for protection when Maurice’s mother comes jogging down the hill.

 

“Somebody’s brother.”

 

“ _Maurice._ Come home.” His mother begs, grabbing him by his shoulders urgently, clearly worried. Maurice scowls, Hannah studying his rude behavior as he snaps at his mother. “Stop being such a _bitch_.” He turns to Abraham and sighs. “See you later, Abe.”

 

“Bye.”

 

Hannah and Willow step over the stream carefully to search through the forest for Nick Boyle. They come back only a few minutes later, their search unsuccessful. Willow looks to Abraham apologetically and sighs. “He’s gone.” Hannah’s eyes wander along the edge of the stream and she walks towards the embankment as she notices the bloodied rock Maurice had thrown at him. As she turns to look at Willow, she pretends to adjust her heel as she kicks few dead leaves to cover the stone.

 

* * *

 

**SNELLING MOTEL, MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA**

 

_“I’m so sorry, Abraham. Please just hold still. Please. I’ll make it all go away, I promise.”_

 

_Abraham wails and trembles in Willow’s arms and she holds him close, begging him to be still as she holds her knife against his throat. He gasps and lets out an ear-piercing scream when she slices cleanly from ear to ear and drops him._

 

Willow awakes with a start when her alarm on her phone blares, jerking to sit up and shivering against her cold, sweat soaked shirt. She peels it off and stands, turning off her alarm and shuffling to the curtains, peeling them back and letting daylight flood her hotel room.

 

* * *

 

**CRIME SCENE, CHIPPEWA NATIONAL FOREST, CASS LAKE, MINNESOTA**

 

Two police cars lead Hannah’s blue rental car down the dirt road leading to the Hobbs’ cabin, and Hannah glances to her right where Willow snoozes in the passenger seat after a restless night. She parks the car on the edge of the grass, turning the keys to power the car off. She turns back to Alan and Abraham to give them a pleasant smile and a nod for them to head inside. Hannah clicks the passenger side seatbelt off of Willow before she undoes her own. She sighs and admires seeing her calm for the first time before leaning in to nudge her shoulder softly to wake her up.

 

Willow awakes and mutters an apology before climbing out of the car. Her movements are slow and languid as she makes her way up the steps, opening the door and letting Hannah inside before she goes in and she watches as Abraham looks around at the plastic sheets covering the antlers mounted on the walls sorrowfully.

 

“He cleaned everything. He said he was afraid of germs but I guess he was just afraid of getting caught.”

 

“And no one else came up here with your dad, except for you?” Willow asks and Abraham shakes his head. “Ever help him make plumbing putty?”

 

“He made everything by himself. Plumbing putty, glue, butter. He sold the pelts on ebay or in town. He made pillows. Carved knives out of leg bones. No parts went to waste. Otherwise it was murder.” He moves his eyes shiftily across the worn down floorboards, remembering his conversation with Freddy. “He was feeding them to us, wasn’t he?”

 

“It’s very likely.” Hannah says after a few seconds of silence and Abraham sighs, running his hand along the wooden skinning table that sits in the center of the room. “Before he cut my throat, he told me he killed those boys so he wouldn’t have to kill me.”

 

“You’re not responsible for anything your father did, Abraham.” Alan assures.

 

“If he would have just killed me, none of those boys would have died.” A drop of blood falls onto Abraham’s pale cheek. He wipes it off with his index finger and stares at it a moment before glancing above him to the blood leaking through the ceiling.

 

Willow and Hannah rush up the stairs, Alan staying behind with Abraham as he processes the situation. Willow quickly whips out her phone and calls Jacqueline, “I need an ERT at the Hobbs cabin.”

 

She slowly approaches the naked body of a teenage boy hanging on a rack of antlers once she’s off the phone and lifts the head, her eyes widening as she stares at the face of Maurice Schuur and realizes what happened.

 

Abraham climbs the stairs despite Alan’s protests as he comes up quickly behind the teen. Abraham pales and Alan puts a hand on his back to steady him, shushing and coaxing him to come back downstairs when he screams and sobs pitifully, voice hoarse.

 

A police officer unravels a barrier of yellow caution tape, sirens blaring down the road. Along the edge of the forest, Alan sits with an arm over Abraham, who’s shaking and void of color. Both of them look up towards the F.B.I SUV barrelling down the small dirt road. Jacqueline Crawford steps out of the passenger side before the car’s even stopped, exhausted.

 

Willow stands in front of Maurice’s corpse, still observing. She moves a gloved thumb along his swollen lip as Hannah lingers behind her, admiring the killer’s handiwork.

 

Jacqueline climbs the stairs, already frustrated about having to deal with another case and Hannah steps aside to give the woman space. “You bring Abraham Hobbs back to Minnesota to find out if he had anything to do with his father’s murders and another boy dies.”

 

Willow does her best to ignore her boss’ accusations, focusing on the investigation at hand as she peels the boy’s lower lip down to look at it with scrutiny. “There’s talcum on his lip. She was wearing gloves when she hit him. Split the latex on his tooth.”

 

“You said the copycat was an intelligent psychopath. No traceable motive. No patterns. She would never kill like this again.”

 

“I may have been wrong about that.” Willow says flippantly as she holds the boy’s mouth open and shines her flashlight down his throat, squinting.

 

“Garret Jacob Hobbs didn’t hit boys. Why would the copycat?” Jacqueline asks, taking a long gulp of the coffee in her left hand. Her right hand is stuffed in the pocket of her slacks and when Willow turns away from the body her lip twitches into half a smile when she looks at her exhausted boss.

 

“She was provoked.” Hannah suggests and Willow looks at her, nodding in agreement.

 

“Scraped her knuckle on his teeth. There’s foreign tissue and what could be trace amounts of blood.”

 

“Where was Abraham Hobbs when this boy was murdered?” Jacqueline asks and Willow looks her up and down, judging the angle she should take this silently.

 

“In his hotel room.”

 

“And where were you?”

 

“I fell asleep early.”

 

Jacqueline sighs, “So you don’t know if he was in his hotel room or not.” Willow stays silent as she peels the latex gloves off her hands, stuffing them in her pockets as she looks at Jacqueline with a raised eyebrow, expecting more than just that. “I believe Nicholas Boyle murdered this boy. And his own brother.”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Willow asks with an incredulous laugh before her expression goes serious and she looks at the woman dubiously, “Jacqueline, the killer’s a woman. I’ve never seen a killer like this one. She’s cold, she’s heartless. She probably _only_ goes after men and boys. It could be related to childhood trauma, sexuality, or both-”

 

“Or _neither._ You tell me you were wrong about Hobbs’ copycat. I want to know what else you were wrong about.”

 

Willow pauses, eyeing her boss. “Whoever killed the boy in the field, killed this boy. I’m right about that. She knew exactly how to mount the body. Wound patterns are almost identical to Cameron Boyle. The same design, same humiliation.”

 

“Abraham Hobbs isn’t a killer but he could be the target of one.” Hannah says, and Jacqueline looks over at the taller woman in concern.

 

“I think it’s time for Abraham Hobbs to leave home for good. Pack up anything he needs and get him out of Minnesota. Now.” Willow turns to leave just as Hannah starts to go down the stairs to tell Alan, but Jacqueline stops her with a firm grip on her shoulder. “Not you, Willow. You stay right here.”

 

* * *

 

**HOBBS RESIDENCE, BLOOMINGTON, MINNESOTA**

 

Red and blue lights dance across the windshield Abraham looks through, and he watches from the back seat as a police officer move orange cones out of the way to let Hannah through to the house. Abraham ducks back down, tense and feeling guilty as reporters shout his name from behind the police tape.

 

Reporters reach across the line towards Abraham in hope that he’ll answer their vague questions about his emotions, but Alan leads him towards the house quickly with an arm over his shoulders and Hannah stays a step or two behind the two. Maurice’s mother breaks through the police line and runs towards Abraham, but Hannah quickly grabs her.

 

“Why did you come back? Why come back? Why did you come back here?” Maurice’s mother tries her hardest to squirm out of Hannah’s grip, but it’s unyielding. She slowly pushes the woman sobbing in her arms back towards the police line and Alan tells Abraham to stay where he is and gives him a pat on the shoulder. He takes the woman from Hannah’s arms and offers a comforting embrace before handing her off to a policeman.

 

Alan lays his arm across Abraham’s back once he’s walking with him again, and Hannah walks along on the other side of him. The three stop in their tracks as Freddy Lounds walks from where he was standing in the shadows.

 

“Abraham.”

 

Hannah scowls as she hears his voice. “Mister Lounds, you’re on the wrong side of the police line.”

 

“This is my tale to tell. I’ve been covering the Minnesota Shrike long before _you_ got involved.” Freddy quickly approaches the trio before a policeman grabs his shoulders and Hannah steps to the side to make way for the policeman pushing the reporter away from the scene. Freddy looks to Abraham desperately as he’s dragged along. “I want to help you tell your story! You need me now more than ever!”

 

Abraham looks to Alan pleadingly. “I wanna talk to him.” Alan tightens his grip on the boy’s waist and leads him to the door. “No, you don’t. Go inside.”

 

Hannah follows behind as Freddy is escorted across the police line, her heels quickly clicking on the concrete of the driveway. “I’m not the only one lurking about the Hobbs’ house in the middle of the night peeking in windows. They really should monitor those police lines more carefully.”

 

She pushes the policeman off of Freddy, looking down to him as he turns around. “Have you seen a young man, mid-20s, ginger hair?” She clicks her tongue as she notices how particularly unruly his red curls are today. “Un-washed.”

 

“I’ll tell you if I saw him if you tell me why it’s important.” Freddy runs a hand through his hair and the corners of Hannah’s mouth curl into a smirk.

 

Inside, Abraham sits alone on his living room couch sobbing softly, emotionally drained from the horrors of the day. He leans back against the plush cushions, picking up one of the throw pillows his father had sewn. He sniffles as he looks at the familiar pattern of a deer surrounded by red and pink flowers and is momentarily comforted before the reality of the pillow dawns on him. He sits up straight and digs his fingers into the seams, nails pulling at the threads hard until it bursts and brown human hair falls on his lap. He trembles and stands up quickly, wiping the hair stuck to his jeans off on the floor and jumping back away from the couch.

 

The sliding glass doors at the side of the living room open and a cool breeze makes Abraham shiver and he looks up where Nick Boyle stands in the doorway. He goes stiff instinctively, eyes wide, and Nick holds his hands up in mock surrender.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you, don’t… I got to talk to someone. I didn’t kill your friend, I swear.”

 

Abraham bolts in the direction of the kitchen and Nick chases him, grabbing him by his shoulders and spinning him around, slamming him against the wall by the fireplace. Abraham opens his mouth to scream but Nick covers his mouth with his hand.

 

“Just listen to me! I didn’t-”

 

Nick stiffens suddenly and goes silent, mouth hanging open in shock as he looks down to where Abraham had plunged a knife into his abdomen. He pulls it down, gutting him in one swift motion just like his father taught him. Nick stumbles back, pale and glossy eyed as he falls forward and his entrails slap against the floor with an awful wet sound.

 

Hannah and Alan’s shoulders relax as they cross the police line, escaping the media swarm they were just in. The two of them walk calmly to the front door, and once they’re inside they move toward the kitchen.

 

“Abraham.” Alan calls out, but stops just before he reaches the kitchen as he watches a bloodied Abraham wander up the stairs. “Abraham…“ Before Alan can get out another word, Hannah palms the side of his head from behind, slamming his head into the stone wall with one swift move. She gently lays him on the ground after he immediately collapses into her arms.

 

“He’ll be alright.” Abraham blinks in shock as he looks at Hannah calmly stand up and straighten her skirt. “Show me what happened.”

 

Abraham leads her down the stairs, careful not to touch the railing with his bloodied hands. “He was gonna kill me.” She cautiously follows behind him and looks towards the corpse of Nicholas Boyle. “Was he?”

 

Hannah looks Abraham up and down once more in pity before kneeling on the ground beside Nick. Her tone sounds similar to a mother comforting a child’s mistake. “This isn’t self-defense, Abraham. You butchered him.”

 

“I didn’t…“

 

“They will see what you did and they will see you as an accessory to the crimes of your father.”

 

“I wasn’t.”

 

“I can help you, if you ask me to. At great risk to my career and my life. You have a choice. You can tell them you were defending yourself when you gutted this man…” Abraham swallows hard and looks to Hannah pleadingly. “Or we can hide the body.”

 

Alan sits in an ambulance, the left side of his forehead covered with a bandage. Willow sits on the edge of it and Jacqueline leans against the door, listening intently to Alan’s explanation. “I don’t remember anything. Maybe a blur out of the corner of my eye, then a big, fat cut to black.”

 

“Nicholas Boyle attacked you, Abraham, and struck Lecter across the back of the head with a fireplace poker.”

 

“Wait, where’s Abraham?”

 

“Lecter took him back to the hotel.” Willow explains, sniffing against the cold night air and brushing the stray hairs out of her eyes. “He scratched Nicholas Boyle on his way out the back door. The blood on his hands matches the tissue that we pulled from Maurice Schurr’s mouth.”

 

Alan’s eyebrows furrow in confusion and he sits up straight in frustration. “He got away?”

 

“He won’t go to a hospital. He knows he’ll get caught if he does.”

 

“We’ll catch him one way or another.” Jacqueline assures, giving Alan a comforting pat on the leg.

 

Willow pushes herself off the edge of the vehicle and sighs as she stretches back. Jacqueline looks away from Alan in confusion. “Where are you going?”

 

“I’m tired, Jacqueline. I want to go home.”

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Hannah and Willow both sit across from each other in the uncomfortably familiar way as always. The taller of the two sits leaned to the right with her legs crossed underneath her pencil skirt, her eyes intently looking over the dark haired woman.

 

“You view your mentality as grotesque but useful.” Hannah observes as she moves her right hand to lay across her lap.

 

“Like a chair made of antlers.”

 

“How did you feel seeing Maurice Schuur impaled in Garret Jacob Hobbs’ antler room?” Hannah looks down to the folder she holds in her lap, which has only a few short notes on Willow. She doesn’t feel the need to take too many while in a session, since she takes the time to write a thorough observation after the fact. The specifics about her most interesting patients tend to stay in her mind, anyways.

 

“Guilty.” Willow keeps her eyes on the floor below Hannah’s chair.

 

“Because you couldn’t save him?”

 

“Because I felt like I killed him.” Willow moves her eyes up to Hannah as she continues. “I got so close to him. Sometimes I felt like we were doing the exact same thing at the exact same time.”

 

“Even after he was dead?”

 

“Even after he was dead.”

 

“Like you were becoming him.”

 

“I know who I am, Doctor Lecter.” Willow grips the arms of her chair and looks Hannah in the eye. “But I don’t think I should see Abraham anymore. Not for a while.”

 

Hannah checks her watch and stands, sighing. “I’m afraid that’s all we have time for, Willow.”

 

The two of them continue to chat for a few minutes, forming a vague conclusion to the session. As Willow makes her way out the door, Hannah lays a hand on the small of her back and wishes her a goodnight. She closes the door behind her and grabs her notebook on the way back to her desk.

 

Later that evening, Hannah sits at her desk still focusing on her observations of Willow. The pen moves across the paper easily, but she pauses every few sentences to recollect her thoughts. She scratches out a misspelled word and sighs in disappointment, leaning back in her chair.

 

“Hello, Abraham.” Hannah says clearly, her suspicions confirmed by the creaking of the floorboards above her.

 

Abraham slides the book he was thumbing through back onto the shelf and looks down to Hannah from the balcony. “How’d you know it was me?”

 

“Hospital called.” She explains, finishing the word she was writing with the flick of her pen. She turns her head to Abraham as she continues. “You climbed over the wall.” Hannah sets her pen down in her notebook and closes it as she stands. She walks over to the ladder, and Abraham begins to make his way towards it warily. “Where else were you to go? Home is no longer an option. Come down from there.”

 

Abraham takes a second before he moves towards the ladder, not taking his eyes off of the woman below him. As he moves down the ladder, Hannah stands by with her hand extended to help him down. He stares at it and back to her before accepting her assistance.

 

He walks away from her quickly with shaky breaths and pushes the messy brown hair out of his face. “I don’t want to go to sleep.”

 

“You can’t anticipate your dreams.” Hannah lingers behind Abraham before stepping in front of him. “Can’t block them, can’t repress.”

 

“I didn’t honor any part of him. So, it’s just murder, isn’t it?”

 

“Most would argue self defense.”

 

“Then why not tell the truth?”

 

“ _Most_ would argue. There would still be those who would say you were taking after your father.”

 

Abraham furrows his brows in confusion. “You’re glad I killed him.”

 

“What would be the alternative? That he killed you?”

 

“I don’t know if he was going to.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

Abraham steps back slightly in realization. “You’re the one who called the house. You talked to my dad before…” His voice is broken and quiet, and he swallows hard before continuing. “What did you say to him?”

 

“A simple conversation, ascertaining if he was home for an interview.” Hannah’s tone remains calm and collected. Abraham looks at her in disbelief and shakes his head. She quickly reads his expression and questions, “Then why not tell the truth?”

 

“I think you called the house as a serial killer. Just like my dad.”

 

“I’m nothing like your father. I made a mistake. Something easily misconstrued. Not unlike yourself.”

 

The two of them look at each other in a shared moment of thought. Hannah breaks the silence. “I’ll keep your secret.”

 

“And I’ll keep yours.”

  
A smile forms at the corners of Hannah’s lips as she turns quickly to make her way back to her desk. “No more climbing walls, Abraham.”


	3. Entrée

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the first one where we've strayed pretty far from the plot line, but don't worry there's still plenty of sad Crawfords and Chilton being a real creep. The next chapter will be up sooner than this one was because we already know what direction we want to take it! Thank you all for being patient!
> 
> Names:  
> Will Graham - Willow Graham  
> Hannibal Lecter - Hannah Lecter  
> Abigail Hobbs - Abraham Hobbs  
> Alana Bloom - Alan Bloom  
> Clarice Starling - Clarence Starling  
> Jack Crawford - Jacqueline Crawford  
> Bedelia Du Maurier - Bedilayn Du Maurier  
> Freddie Lounds - Freddy Lounds  
> Mason Verger - Macy Verger  
> Margot Verger - Marco Verger
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE, GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF MURDER, MENTAL DISINTEGRATION, BRIEF MENTIONS OF CANCER, TOBACCO USE, AND A NON-GRAPHIC FUNERAL SCENE

**???**

 

Willow walks slowly down the empty rural road, her warm breath clouding up in the cold night air. Her unruly curls are even messier than usual and she’s clad only in a too big white t-shirt and ill-fitting black panties, swaying slightly at her ankles as she walks. Winston walks behind her, whimpering softly and nudging his owner’s wrist with his wet nose when a cop car rolls slowly up the road towards them. Willow doesn’t react, her arm only twitching slightly at the sensation. She stops and holds her arms up to shield her eyes from the blinding headlights, squinting to watch the officer get out of his car. He gets a flashlight from his belt and clicks it on, shining it at the woman in front of him.

 

“Are you lost?” He asks and Willow shakes her head, disoriented.

 

“What?”

 

He moves his flashlight up and down to give her a full lookover. “What’s your name?”

 

“Uh… Willow… Willow Graham.”

 

“You know where you are, Ms. Graham?”

 

“No…” She confesses, squinting against the bright light he shines on her.

 

“Where do you live?”

 

“Wolf Trap, Virginia.”

 

“Well, we’re in Wolf Trap. That’s good, you’re close to home.” The officer says carefully, turning off his flashlight and glancing behind the woman when he hears a pitiful whine from the German Shepherd. “That yours?”

 

Willow turns to look behind her and smiles softly when she sees Winston with his head lowered in concern for his owner. “Hey, buddy…” She greets weakly and when Winston jumps on her and laps at her hands and nuzzles her soft tummy, unable to contain his excitement seeing his owner well, she winces when she realizes she’s in mild pain.

 

“Can I sit down? My feet hurt.”

 

The officer’s eyebrows furrow in concern, the keys in his hand jingling as he readjusts them. “Why don’t we take you home?”

 

Willow slides into the back seat and the officer offers her a wool blanket after Winston hops in the back and curls up with his head on her lap. He huffs and Willow works at picking the gravel out of her feet with one hand, petting Winston with the other. She shushes him and ruffles his soft fur when he growls lowly at the officer who gets in the driver’s seat. He glances up at the odd duo in the rear view mirror as he drives.

 

“Are you on any drugs, prescription or otherwise?”

 

“No.”

 

“Have you been drinking?”

 

“No.” She begins, but quickly corrects herself. “Yes, but not excessively. I had two fingers of whiskey before bed.”

 

“Do you have a history of sleepwalking, Ms. Graham?” He asks, looking away from the mirror as he drives slowly down the dark road.

 

Willow shakes her head and leans her head against the window, cheek pressed against the cold glass as she looks out at the dark forest they drive past. “No. I’m not even sure I’m awake _now_.”

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S HOUSE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

“Although I might be, is it safe to assume you’re no longer sleepwalking?”

 

Hannah stands on the other side of the counter from Willow, pouring cups of coffee for them. She’s without makeup and her hair is down from having been awoken suddenly and not having time to get dressed. Willow’s fully dressed and watches Hannah with tired eyes, inhaling silently when she lifts an arm to brush some of her greying brown hair over her shoulder. The sleeve of her navy blue silk robe falls back down to her wrist when she sets the pot down on the white marble counter and Willow’s gaze trails to where the garment is tied loosely at her waist before she speaks.

 

“I’m sorry it’s so early.”

 

Hannah offers Willow a warm smile in reply, handing the shorter woman her cup of coffee, “Nonsense. Never apologize for coming to me. Office hours are for patients, my kitchen is always open to you.”

 

Willow smiles sheepishly and leans against the counter on her right as she takes a sip of her coffee. Hannah picks up her own cup delicately, clicking her long nails against the porcelain as she speaks. “Onset sleepwalking in adulthood is less common than in children. Jacqueline Crawford has made you get your hands dirty.”

 

“She isn’t making me do anything.” Willow defends.

 

“Maybe not.” Hannah says, raising an eyebrow as she takes a sip of her coffee. “Manipulating would be a more appropriate word.”

 

Willow feels drained suddenly, stomach sinking sorrowfully as she takes another drink. She sets her cup down on the counter next to the metal stove. “You said Jacqueline saw me as fine china, but I’m beginning to feel more like an old mug.”

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Hannah sits opposite of Philip Crawford, the room dark except for the warm morning light leaking through the thin white curtains. He sits with uncrossed legs and an empty expression, his eyes staring vacantly in Hannah’s direction but not at her. She sits with her legs crossed, tapping her nails on a leather folder with clear disinterest.

 

“You intend on keeping this from Jacqueline?”

 

Philip’s eyes fall to the ground as he takes a deep breath in and sighs. “It wouldn’t do any good. Jacqueline already has to see the world at its worst. I don’t want her seeing me at mine. She has too much to worry about, this would only make matters worse.”

 

Hannah lets the silence linger while she thinks. “I feel like you may be trying to protect her.”

 

“I am.” Philip admits easily, clearly ready to move on to another subject. He furrows his eyebrows as he thinks and looks Hannah in the eye, concerned. “Doctor Lecter, you have a professional relationship with my wife. There’s no conflict of interest in me being here?”

 

Hannah smiles, appreciating his attempt at deflection. “It’s not unheard of, but it’s rather unorthodox. The fact that I know Jacqueline can remove some of the guesswork.”

 

Philip sits back in his chair, trying to put together the feelings in his head. “I was just trying to maintain my dignity. Somehow I got off track.”

 

“The only indignity I can see is resentment.”

 

Philip looks at his lap, tears forming in his eyes, but Hannah continues. “Why do you resent your wife?”

 

“I resent that Jacqueline doesn’t want to face the true nature of things,” His voice breaks as he looks back up. “That she tries to play off that nothing is bothering her. I don’t want to be the cause of more broken smiles.”

 

“That’s your choice, not hers.” Hannah assures, picking up the tissue box on the table next to her chair, leaning forward to pass it to Phillip. He hesitates before leaning forward and taking it, sinking back into his chair in defeat.

 

“I wouldn’t be able to deal with how Jacqueline covers up her feelings about all this. It’s hard enough dealing with how I feel. Her humor can’t fix my health.”

 

* * *

 

 

**???**

 

Willow lies in bed, her room pitch black and her breathing slow and even as she looks at her alarm clock. The bright blue numbers read 11:31 PM and when she blinks it’s 3:46 AM. She doesn’t blink again.

 

She curls on her side under the mass of blankets and sheets and shivers, and her eyes slowly close under the weight of exhaustion.

 

The sound of barking slowly rouses her into consciousness and her eyes go wide when she realizes she’s standing on her roof in her pajamas. She trembles against the chilly morning air and looks over the edge of the roof down to her porch steps below. She turns around where the muffled barking comes from and looks through her bedroom window behind her where her dogs are crowded, scratching and pawing fruitlessly at the glass.

 

Her eyebrows furrow and she looks back to the horizon, concern about her new condition washing over her.

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Willow knocks three Bufferin tablets into her palm, sliding the white bottle back in her jacket pocket and swallowing them with a bottle of water offered to her by Hannah. The older woman watches curiously from her spot in one of the leather chairs, eyes trailing to her throat where she watches Willow gulp down half the bottle.

 

“It’s hard to lie still in bed when all your mind can focus on is the fear of going to sleep. You listen to any and every slight movement made in the dark, even if it’s your own.” Hannah says and watches as Willow paces around the room, avoiding the seat across from her.

 

“I dream more than I used to.”

 

“Your dreams were the one place you could willingly give up control but still stay physically safe. Not now?”

 

“Not now.” Willow shakes her head and continues with a tiny laugh, “I thought about zipping myself up in a sleeping bag when I go to bed, but that sounds too much like a poor man’s straitjacket.”

 

Hannah smiles, eyes crinkling in amusement before her face falls again and she stands, crossing the room to where Willow is looking up at the clock hanging above her desk. She stands just behind her, her gaze following Willow’s before it drops down to the dark tangled curls hanging down past her shoulders.

 

“The Chesapeake Ripper is back.”

 

“I was to believe the Ripper was locked away. Abel Gideon, was it?”

 

“No, there’s a new murder that’s far too similar. I’m not convinced Abel Gideon is the Ripper, no matter how much Jacqueline tells me he is. Not to sound like I’m making an unexplainable leap, but I think the Ripper had something to do with Abraham Hobbs.” Willow says, deep in thought as she watches the second hand of the clock tick rhythmically.

 

“Do you think Garret Jacob Hobbs’ copycat is the Chesapeake Ripper?”

 

“I don’t know, but the puzzle pieces aren’t fitting together. I’m trying to reconstruct her thoughts, find her pattern. I can catch her if I can fit in her shoes.”

 

“You and the Chesapeake Ripper are not unlike. She is being eaten by what’s inside her brain, but you…” Hannah’s voice trails off and she slides her hand over Willow’s back, swiping her curls over her shoulder and leaning forward. “You don’t have a choice.”

 

Hannah inhales deeply and steps back, her fingers carding through the ends of Willow’s tangled hair when she steps away. Willow shivers and looks over her shoulder, finally tearing her gaze away from the clock.

 

“Did you just _smell me_?”

 

Hannah offers her a suggestive smile in response, “I find it difficult to avoid. I could introduce you to a stronger shampoo. The smell of wet dog is still evident in your hair.”

 

“Not much you can do when you have nine of them.” Willow says dismissively, walking away from Hannah’s desk and moving to one of the bookshelves in feigned interest in the medical books there. Hannah’s eyes follow her and she looks Willow up and down before she clears her throat and speaks again.

 

“Have your headaches been worse lately? More frequent?”

 

“Yes, actually.”

 

Hannah stares in thought at the ground beside Willow’s feet. She takes a deep breath through her nose and stands up straighter. Her eyes trail back up to the dark curls as she begins to weigh her options. “I’d change that shampoo.”

 

* * *

 

**BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

“Starling, Clarence Marshall. Come on in.”

 

Clarence walks through the door, his hands fidgeting with his student ID hanging from his lanyard. He gives Jacqueline a warm grin as he meets her in front of the desk. “Good mornin’, Agent Crawford.” He says in a honey sweet voice, southern drawl long and slow.

 

“Sorry to pull you out of class. There’s nothing wrong.” She says and holds her hands up as a reassurance, taking off her reading glasses and folding them. She sets them on her desk before returning his smile, “No reason to be nervous.”

 

“Oh, I’m not nervous,” Clarence laughs lightly, clearly trying to relax his posture. “Just curious about what you called me in here for.”

 

“Your teachers tell me you’re in the top ten percent.”

 

“Yessum. Well, actually, it’s the top top five.”

 

“You’re going to have to stop correcting me if we want to get along.” Jacqueline teases and laughs, sitting back in her chair to take a break from mulling over his files. “In your letter, you said you wanted to work for me in the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“There might be an opportunity, assuming that you’re familiar with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

 

Clarence looks to his feet. “Yessum.”

 

Jacqueline braces her elbows against her desk, leaning forward to look Clarence in the eyes. “I’m assigning you to the Chesapeake Ripper task force. You’ll work directly under me and with me the whole way. I’ve got a crew that can help you in anytime through this task, including your Behavioral Science professor, Ms. Graham.” Clarence’s face lights up and Jacqueline continues, “I know you’re just a trainee, but you’ve got to get your experience somewhere. I’m expecting a lot from you, Starling.”

 

“I’m grateful that you even considered letting me become part of this case, Agent Crawford. I’m looking forward to try my hardest and maybe even go above your expectations.”  

 

* * *

 

**CRIME SCENE, ABANDONED WORKSHOP, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Ice crunches under Clarence’s boots as he walks with Jacqueline down the hill to reach the abandoned workshop. He shivers to himself, trying to keep a strong composure in preparation to see the tableau. His cheeks and nose are red from the cold air and he huffs out a nervous breath that puffs up like a cloud once they reach the door. Jacqueline looks over at the shorter boy, sensing his uneasiness, and puts a gloved hand on his shoulder.

 

“If you want to get out, just say the word and I’ll take you back home.”

 

He shakes his head, “I’ll be alright. Just a little nervous is all.”

 

Jacqueline moves her hand from his shoulder and hesitates before opening the door and ushering the trainee inside. Clarence steps up into the small wooden shed and looks around the cramped space. The body on the workbench is covered with a clear plastic sheet, obscuring Clarence’s view of it. He looks at it for a long moment before quickly averting his gaze and looking to his professor, who points to empty spots on the wall where tools once were hung and speaks quietly to Beverly Katz.

 

“Good morning, professor.” Clarence greets her meekly.

 

Willow stops talking and looks at the blond by the door, offering half a smile, “Good morning, Starling. You enjoying your Christmas break?”

 

“Yessum. Never thought I’d be here the first Monday of it though.” He jokes to try to ease his nerves.

 

Jacqueline stays by the door and watches Willow offer Clarence a pair of blue latex gloves before peeling back the plastic sheet.

 

“Merry Christmas to us.” Willow teases and sets the plastic sheet down on the dusty concrete floor beneath the table in front of her, explaining, “Price insisted we cover it for you in case you panicked.”

 

“I’ve seen worse things in your classroom. This is a lot different than on the projector, though.” Clarence mutters the last bit to himself as he wiggles on the tight gloves, approaching the table slowly. The cut out window above the table allows morning light to flood the small room, giving the trainee a good view of the corpse.

 

The man’s blue eyes are wide and he has short brown hair and a scruffy beard, with a build tall and stocky like that of a military man. Arrows stick through his abdomen and his thighs, pinning him down to the table. Dried blood is caked in the holes in his shirt and his worn jeans around the shafts of the arrows.

 

Clarence bends down to look under the table.

 

“They aren’t all the way through.” Willow says, watching the trainee carefully, “Only an inch or two in the table, just enough to hold him in place so he couldn’t break loose from squirming.”

 

“He was alive when he was pinned?”

 

“Slow death.” Beverly comments from her spot by Willow.

 

Clarence stands back up and turns his attention to hunting for any wounds indicating the direct cause of death. “What did the sweep team find?”

 

“Not much.” Willow admits, “There’s a bludgeon wound on the back of his head, she knocked him out with something before she pinned him. I think it was a wrench, the wound is narrow enough and there’s rim marks on either side of it, but there wasn’t a wrench found. They’re outside looking in the woods for anything discarded, but I doubt they’re going to find anything.”

 

Clarence turns the man’s head carefully to look at the dark red mark raised on the back of his head. Tacky blood sticks to his hair and Clarence moves the matted knot to look at the injury directly. He steps back once he’s finished and takes his gloves off, stuffing them in his coat pocket.

 

“What do you think about this, Ms. Graham?”

 

_Willow lifts the man’s unconscious body onto the cleared off work table, wood chips and feathers on the floor beneath her where she’d swiped her arm across the surface to clear it. Once he’s flat on his back on the table she drops the bloodied wrench- No, she tucks it into her jacket pocket. She can't leave any evidence, fingerprints included- No, she had gloves on. But no glove prints were found-_

 

Willow snaps out of it and shakes her head, taking her glasses off to pinch the brim of her nose in annoyance at her own confusion. Her thoughts feel jumbled and out of order, and she’s disappointed that Crawford’s prodigy is slipping. “I don't know what I think about this. This case gave me a headache ten years ago, and ten years later is no different.”

 

She moves her hand from where she'd been gripping her nose and sighs, putting her glasses back on and snapping the gloves off her hands, stuffing them in her jacket pockets.

 

“Do you think Abel Gideon is the Ripper?” Jacqueline asks her.

 

“I don't know.” Willow says sorrowfully, looking down at the floor beneath her feet.

 

“Well he isn't killing from his jail cell, is he?”

 

“I don't know, ask him.”

 

“I’m asking _you._ ” Jacqueline insists, becoming impatient.

 

Willow looks up at her boss finally, clearly irritated with her confrontational tone.

 

“You're the head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit, Jacqueline. If you don't like my answers, why don't you come up with your own?” Willow demands, and the room falls silent. Beverly shuffles uncomfortably and stillness washes over the other lab workers at Willow’s blatant disrespect. Jacqueline stares at her agent for a long moment before saying sternly, “I did not hear that.”

 

Willow tears her harsh gaze away from the woman and her face falls flat again, cheeks lighting up red. “No, you didn't. I’m sorry.”

 

Embarrassed by her own outburst, Willow mutters something to excuse herself and moves through the crowded shed to push herself out the door. Jacqueline watches her go silently, and Zeller softly suggests a sweep around the perimeter to find the wrench. Beverly and Jimmy follow him out and Jacqueline sighs through her nose.

 

“Let’s get you home, Starling.”

 

* * *

 

**BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

Willow stands alone in morgue next to the examination table where the latest victim’s body lies, the room cold and silent. One of the double doors opens by the fridge and Beverly Katz enters, heeled boots clicking on the tile floor. Willow eyes her for a moment before looking back down at the body.

 

“You need some help in here?” Beverly offers as she grabs a manila folder with a description of the injuries left next to the fridge, trying to play it off like that was the reason for being here instead of Willow.

 

“I’m alright, just thinking.” Willow replies and Beverly hums, leaning her back against the metal morgue drawers.

 

Beverly silently debates for a moment and takes note of any off movement Willow makes before she speaks. “I’ve never seen anyone talk to Jacqueline the way you do.”

 

“I was out of line.” Willow defends, embarrassed.

 

“You were out of your mind. My ears rang like the first time I heard my mom use the F-word.” Beverly laughs lightly, brushing the fallen hair out of her face. Her expression turns to one of concern when she notices that Willow doesn’t crack a smile and continues with a softer tone, “Are you okay? I know it’s a pointless question because none of us are really okay doing what we do, but are you okay?”

 

“Do I seem different?”

 

“You’re a little different. Then again you’ve always been a little different.” Beverly’s usual smile quickly fades and she stands straight in a panic, motioning frantically with her hands as she instantly backtracks, “Not that there’s anything wrong with-”

 

“I know.” Willow laughs warmly, shaking her head, “I know what you meant.”

 

Beverly relaxes her posture and she wanders slowly towards the other woman, taking her warmness as some kind of invitation. She stands across from her on the other side of the table, arms crossed over her chest casually. “You probably think it’s a good thing, but I find it infuriating that I never know what’s wrong with you.”

 

“How would I know when something’s wrong with you?”

 

“You wouldn’t, but if you asked I’d tell you.” Beverly looks Willow in her eyes to the best ability with the shorter woman quickly averting her gaze, trying to seem as sincere as she can. “Return the favor?”

 

Willow opens her mouth to respond, but before she has a chance to Jimmy Price walks in confidently, waving a manilla folder proudly above his head.

 

“Will the real Jeremy Olmstead please stand up?” He jokes and Willow turns her attention to the older man. Beverly keeps her eyes on Willow before she slowly turns away too, the moment between them shattered by Jimmy’s untimely entrance.

 

“No?” Jimmy asks with a lighthearted laugh when neither of the women seem impressed by his joke. He hands the folder over to Willow before continuing, “Meet Jeremy Olmstead. Took a minute to find a match because he wasn’t in the registry.”

 

Willow nods in understanding, opening the folder and scanning over the top sheet containing his basic medical records and history, as well as a spread of fingerprints printed in black at the bottom. “Wonder how long it took the Ripper to identify him. She isn’t choosing her victims at random.”

 

“We’re already doing investigations in the neighborhood he lived in, and we’re looking into his hunting accidents and anyone in the area with a hunting license. Jacqueline thinks it might have been a partner of his-”

 

“And Jacqueline’s wrong.” Willow cuts him off and closes the folder, handing it to Beverly over the table before sighing and continuing, “You’re on the right track with hunting accidents in the past. If we’re looking into the Ripper herself, I’d look into any surgeons or emergency room personnel the day of any suspicious accidents.”

 

“The most we’ve found so far are two incidents in 1993 and 1996, it’s going to be hard to find anyone on staff who was involved- Let alone anyone who remembers anything.” Jimmy defends and Willow raises an eyebrow, shrugging.

 

“Better start searching then.”

 

* * *

 

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Hannah opens the door for Philip as he exits, sighing silently in annoyance when he stops in his tracks. She looks over at the row of leather chairs lined up against the red wall in her waiting room to find Jacqueline Crawford sitting patiently.

 

“Agent Crawford.” She greets with a forced smile.

 

“Hello, Jacqueline.” Philip begins to put on his coat, but quickly decides otherwise when Jacqueline stands and begins walking towards the office door.

 

“Doctor, do you mind waiting here so my husband and I can borrow your office for a moment?”

 

Hannah’s eye twitches in annoyance before she forces another smile. “Not at all.”

 

Jacqueline shuffles past her and gives her a small nod as she ushers Philip back in the room. Hannah exhales sharply as the door clicks shut behind her back.

 

“Just dropping by on official business?” Philip lays his coat over his left arm, turning around to face Jacqueline. “Or did you follow me?”

 

“I called your office. They said you were at appointment, so I thought you might be here. Piecing things together is a requirement of my job, after all.”

 

Philip shakes his head and laughs, looking to the floor. His expression drops and he looks up at Jacqueline in earnest. “You know?”

 

Jacqueline nods, her expression stays neutral but her eyes look distant.

 

“I knew you’d find out somehow.” Philip sighs, defeated.

 

“When did _you_ find out?”

 

“Twelve weeks ago. Stage four lung cancer, and you and I both know there’s no stage five.”

 

“Pretty ironic, since you’ve never smoked a day in your life.” Jacqueline forces out a laugh, but quickly her expression falls. “When were you going to tell me?”

 

“In the future. I’m not prepared to have this conversation right now. Before you ask, I don’t know if I want chemotherapy. You won’t have much say in it, either.”

 

Jacqueline stays silent, respecting his decisions. She clears her throat and looks at him honestly. “Do you want to be alone?” Philip begins to open his mouth, but she cuts him off. “I don’t want you to answer that. Just think about your answer. I don’t want you to be alone. Now or ever.”

 

Philip smiles with relief before averting his eyes to the floor. His gaze lingers there as he thinks before he looks at his wife again. “We’ll beat this together?”

 

Jacqueline shakes her head, tears brimming as she faces reality. “This is your fight. I’m here with you through it, though. For whatever you may need.”

 

Philip smiles softly and takes her hand. “Thank you, Jacqueline.”

 

Jacqueline sighs and squeezes Philip’s hand. “Just one more question. Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Philip slides his hand away from Jacqueline’s and turns to face the windows. He stares blankly out towards the trees and takes a deep inhale before he speaks. “I thought that if I kept it to myself our lives wouldn’t change. You’ve still smiled and laughed through this. I didn’t count on that changing for me as much as it did.”

 

* * *

 

**BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

Jacqueline sits in one of the two armchairs at the back of her office, staring down in thought. She leans back and covers her face with her hands, sighing in defeat. She hears the door to her office slowly open and looks over quickly to see Willow coming in hesitantly.

 

“Didn’t expect to see you turn up this late, Willow.” Jacqueline forces a smile, her eyes clearly flooded with worry and regret. Her voice has a nasally quality like she’s stopped crying recently and Willow sighs, closing the door behind her.

 

Willow crosses the office and sits down in the seat beside Jacqueline without a word and looks her in the eyes, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “I heard about Phil.”

 

Jacqueline nods and sucks in a shallow breath, clearly struggling to fight back tears. She looks up towards the ceiling and Willow leans back in her seat, looking off distantly at the wall across from them where a map of the United States is hanging above her desk. Willow remembers Abraham and she can feel her heart sinking.

 

“You can talk to me about it, or we can sit here in silence.” She offers, and Jacqueline doesn’t reply, too wound up in her own thoughts.

 

“Either way, I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

 

* * *

 

**???**

 

_Willow looks towards the open doorway with wide eyes, frozen in fear as she watches blood puddled on the floor pour into the room like a short wave crashing against the beach’s shore._

 

When the blood reaches her feet she jumps and snaps out of it, startled to see Alan and Jacqueline standing in front of her.

 

“Willow?” Alan asks softly, eyebrows scrunched in concern. “You look like you were dreaming. Are you alright?”

 

Willow takes in her surroundings, realizing she’s standing in her empty classroom with the lights off. She sniffles and takes off her glasses, taking the hallucination in stride as she shakes her head slowly in response.

 

“Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking…”

 

“Well, I have something new for you to think about.” Jacqueline says, hesitating as she gives Willow a second look-over out of concern, “We have a medium where we can speak to Abel Gideon. If you’re not convinced he’s the real Chesapeake Ripper, we need to take steps to get the real one off the streets. Is there a way to push the real Ripper into becoming visible?”

 

“Abel Gideon is already her target, Jacqueline. Don’t fool around.”

 

Jacqueline sighs, sliding her hands in the pockets of her slacks. “We need to expose her.”

 

“You’re putting people’s lives at risk by trying to expose her. If we make her angry, people are going to die. And for what? For you to prove Gideon isn’t the Ripper?”

 

“No, for us to finally get her behind bars.”

 

“... What do you want from me?”

 

“Advice.” Alan chimes in and Willow snaps her attention to him. “We were thinking we could enrage the Ripper. Freddy Lounds ran an article on Abel Gideon last Monday- unconfirmed, of course. If we can confirm a story, it should get her attention.”

 

Willow scowls, slightly offended by just the idea of this plan. “Are you suggesting playing ball with Freddy Lounds?”

 

“You know it’s the best way to get her attention, Willow.” Alan gives her a warm smile, still concerned as she paces around her desk in thought. “What other option do we have?”

 

* * *

 

**THE NATIONAL TATTLER OFFICE, PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA**

 

“Good morning, Agent Crawford.”

 

“Thank you for inviting us, Mister Lounds.” Jacqueline’s signature warm smile fades as she feels exhausted already by the interaction. She gestures to Alan with her head as he shuffles in the door behind her. “This is Doctor Bloom, one of our pediatric psychiatry consultants. And I believe you know Willow Graham.”

 

“Doctor Bloom.” Freddy addresses the man with a polite nod before directing his gaze to Willow. “Hello, Ms. Graham.”

 

Willow only stares in his direction inscrutably, lingering behind the two black leather chairs in front of the journalist’s desk. Jacqueline and Alan move to sit down in them, Alan busying himself with straightening his discarded black coat over his lap while Jacqueline clears her throat to address Freddy.

 

“Mister Lounds, you have all the credentials of an excellent reporter; intelligence, guts, and a good eye. How did you end up where you ended up?” Jacqueline rests her elbows on the armrests of the chair and interlocks her fingers over her lap, assuming the usual position of authority she has when she’s sitting at her own desk.

 

“You mean how I ended up in criminal justice journalism?”

 

Willow scoffs and everyone snaps their attention back to where she’s standing, “Criminal justice journalism being a euphemism for tasteless tabloid reporting.”

 

Freddy opens his mouth to say something but Jacqueline clears her throat and butts in before the two begin to argue. His gaze lingers on Willow but shifts to Jacqueline when she begins speaking. “You ran an unconfirmed story on the Chesapeake Ripper. I want you to confirm it.”

 

Freddy raises an eyebrow, interested. “An exclusive story would be a coup.”

 

“Sure, get your byline splattered all over the _New York Times_ and _Washington Post_ .” Willow spits out bitterly, sucking in a harsh breath before continuing, “What’s against you and, by association, _us_ is that your brand of journalism is obnoxious and disliked.”

 

“Yes, that is an obstacle. I requested an interview with Abel Gideon and was denied. Evidently some faults in my euphemism.” Freddy says sharply, returning Willow’s bitter tone with a scowl.

 

Alan cuts in softly, “I’m friendly with the new Chief of Staff there, Doctor Frederick Chilton, I could arrange an interview for you.”

 

Freddy looks at Alan with widened eyes as if startled by his presence though he’d been sitting patiently in front of him this entire time. His eyes narrow and he leans back in his squeaky swivel chair, picking up his to go cup of now tepid coffee and taking a long sip. His eyes stay fixed on Alan and he sets the cup back down, and when the phone on his desk rings he picks it up and hangs it back up immediately.

 

“Not to snap bubblegum and crack wise, but what’s my angle?” Freddy asks, leaning forward again to brace his elbows on his desk. Willow eyes the purple bitemark shaped bruise on the journalist’s pale, freckled skin on his forearm suspiciously and watches him tug the sleeves of his red floral sweater back down to his wrists. He shoots her a glance and continues, “Is he really the killer or do you just want me to sell that?”

 

“He could be. Certain personalities are attracted to certain professions.” Alan leans forward in his chair, giving the journalist a quick smile before continuing his thought. “Do you know of the professions psychopaths gravitate to?” He asks and Freddy hums in thought.

 

“CEOs, lawyers, salesmen.” Freddy lists and then adds as an amused afterthought, “The clergy.”

 

“Number five on that list is surgeons.” Jacqueline’s tone is serious as she gives Freddy a harsh lookover.

 

“I’m familiar with the list.” Freddy defends.

 

“Then you know what number six is.” Willow says in a flat voice and Freddy looks up at her with narrowed eyes.

 

He forces the best smile he can muster up and says, “Journalists. Do you know what number seven is, Ms. Graham?”

 

“Law enforcement.” Alan says meekly, looking back to Willow with concern.

 

Willow’s lip twitches and she does her best not to bridle at Freddy’s accusing tone. The skinny man seems insouciant as he leans back in his chair once more, running his fingertips along the edge of the right arm where the leather is splitting.

 

“So what about this new murder? Gideon can’t kill from his jail cell, can he?”

 

* * *

 

**BALTIMORE STATE HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

“Do not reach through the bars, do not touch the bars. You pass him nothing but soft paper - no pens or pencils. No staples or paperclips in his paper. Use the sliding food carrier, no exceptions. Do not accept anything he attempts to hold out to you. Do you understand me?”

 

Doctor Chilton leads Freddy down the long corridor of the institution, stopping in front of a large metal door. Freddy hums in understanding and looks up at Doctor Chilton, who narrows his eyes at the redhead’s passiveness.

 

“Mister Lounds, you must understand why I’m relaying these rules to you. You are familiar with what heinous murders he’s committed, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes, sir. May I go in now?”

 

Doctor Chilton eyes Freddy in annoyance and sighs through his nose, pressing a button outside the door and gesturing for the shorter man to go inside once it slides open. He wishes him luck before slamming the door behind him. The fluorescent overhead light above him flickers and goes out for a second before coming back on. Freddy doesn’t flinch at the sound of the door slamming shut and instead walks confidently down the dim hall of cells, ignoring the prisoners yelling for his attention. One rattles the cell door violently and shouts “Come a little closer, jailbait!”

 

Freddy sits down in a fold out metal chair in front of Abel Gideon’s cell, and the man inside stands to approach the cell bars and watches the journalist closely as he fishes in his bag for his recorder.

 

“Good morning, Doctor Gideon. I’m Freddy Lounds, a reporter for _The National Tattler_. May I talk with you?”

 

Gideon hesitates, eyeing Freddy up and down before asking, “May I see your credentials?”

 

Prepared for the dodge, Freddy produces his reporter’s pass as well as a stapled paper packet of his legal documentation, and he slides it between the bars. Gideon takes it with an amused smile and flips through the papers idly, “What was it Miggs called you?”

 

Freddy looks puzzled and Gideon glances to him before turning the page of the packet before elaborating, “The prisoner in the cell two down from me hissed something at you. What did he say?”

 

“He called me jailbait.” Freddy says and Gideon gives the reporter a once over before passing the documents back to Freddy through the food carrier door. Freddy slides the packet back into his side bag and presses the button on his recorder to start the recording.

 

“Let’s get started.”

 

* * *

 

“We both know you’re a distraction. I would have given Mister Lounds his privacy, but I do appreciate the opportunity Agent Crawford has bestowed upon me to get to know you better.”

 

Willow sits leaned back in the dark red leather chair across from Doctor Chilton’s desk, glasses pushed down low and her long, messy curls shielding parts of her face from the man. She tilts her head up and shakes the curls out of her face, pushing her glasses back up to participate in the conversation.

 

“I always get nervous coming to these places. Afraid you won’t let me leave.”

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you go.” Doctor Chilton says with a wry smile, “For now.”

 

“What do they say about me in your little psychiatric circles?”

 

Doctor Chilton raises an eyebrow, amused, “Too many mirror neurons. Monkey see, monkey do. Those aid us as children to learn behaviors and then go away, but you must have held onto yours.”

 

“It’s a form of echopraxia.”

 

“Yes, I know.” He leans back in his chair and rests his elbow on the arm. His chair squeaks as he lifts his feet up to perch them on the edge of his desk. “During intense conversations, do you find yourself taking on the speech patterns of others?”

 

Willow scowls as she watches Doctor Chilton relax into his chair. “Not that I’m aware of.”  


“Well, watch out if you do.”

 

Willow opens her mouth to say something, but her train of thought abruptly stops when a sound rings loud in her ears as if the entire building had sighed. Doctor Chilton sits up, uncrossing his legs and planting his feet back on the ground at the familiar sound. The lights go out suddenly and bright orange lights begin to flash outside in the hallway.

 

“Shit...”

 

Doctor Chilton jumps up from his office chair and bolts out of the room and Willow stands to check out the source of the sound, right on the heels of one of the security officers as he jogs through the open door leading to the cell block. They secure the first five cells before reaching the end of the hall where Gideon’s cell is, the only one with a closed door, and security surrounds it. One of the officers opens the door slowly and says, “Step away from him. Turn around and lace your fingers behind your head.”

 

As two officers push the door open the rest of the way Willow looks in where Freddy stands in the cell behind Gideon with wide eyes. Gideon steps aside obediently and puts his hands behind his head, and Freddy squeezes his way out of the cramped cell and looks at Willow in surprise.

 

“He pulled me into his cell to protect me from the other patients. One of them stole my bag. Would the real Ripper do anything like that?”

 

“As a matter of fact, she might…” Willow says, voice trailing off when she sees Doctor Chilton walking quickly down the hallway towards them, flanked by two guards.

 

“What happened?” She asks.

 

“Power outage. We’re on backup generators, no one knows what happened.” Doctor Chilton says and lets out a heavy breath, clearly exhausted from running back and forth through the hospital. He looks between Willow and Freddy, then, “Is everyone alright?”

 

“I’m fine.” Freddy says.

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S HOUSE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Doctor Chilton sloshes more wine into his glass from the bottle. “To the Chesapeake Ripper. Doctor Gideon is going to provide us with the singular opportunity to analyze a pure sociopath. It is so _rare_ to find one in captivity.”

 

Alan forces a smile as he holds his glass up towards him. “Let’s hope he really is the Ripper.”

 

Hannah enters through the doorway leading to the kitchen with three plates stacked on her arm and sets the first in front of Alan. “Inspired by Auguste Escoffier, Langue d’agneau en Papillote served with a sauce of duxelle and oyster mushrooms, picked myself.”

 

The two men make idle commentary about the aroma of the food, complimenting the chef, to which Hannah smiles and offers dismissive replies. Alan straightens his napkin across his lap and looks at what’s served in front of him. “I don’t think I’ve ever had tongue before.”

 

“Must have been a pretty chatty lamb to deserve this kind of treatment.” Doctor Chilton chuckles at his own joke as he picks up his silverware, and Alan and Hannah both force uneasy smiles. The three of them all silently cut into their food and push a piece on their forks.

 

Alan clears his throat after he takes the bite of his food and sits up straighter, looking between both Hannah and Doctor Chilton seriously. “I see three possibilities with Gideon: he’s the Chesapeake Ripper, he just thinks he is, or he knows he isn’t.”

 

Doctor Chilton raises his eyebrows at the other man as he finishes swallowing the last of his wine. He leans his elbows on the table, drained wine glass still held up in his hand. “He is, he knows he is, and so do I.”

 

“Did you discuss the Chesapeake Ripper’s crimes with Doctor Gideon before the similar killing?” Hannah questions, glancing at the man for only a quick second. She continues to cut pieces of her tongue as she awaits a response, purposefully avoiding giving Doctor Chilton her full attention.

 

“Mm-hmm. I did as soon as he was admitted, he hardly had time to take a breath before I was on him.” Doctor Chilton sets down his wine glass and picks up his own fork and knife. He clanks his knife loudly against his plate, clearly annoyed at Hannah treating him lower than an equal in the professional field. The corner of Hannah’s mouth forms into a half smile as she takes a sip of her wine.

 

Alan looks back and forth between the two of them skeptically before turning his attention to Doctor Chilton, thinking silently on how to broach the sensitive subject. He speaks carefully, “Is it possible that you inadvertently... planted the suggestion in Gideon’s mind that he was the Ripper?”

 

Doctor Chilton raises his eyebrows in surprise, almost offended by the suggestion. “You’re not suggesting coercive persuasion, are you?”

 

“I said inadvertently.” Alan clarifies.

 

“Psychic driving is unethical.” Doctor Chilton smiles nervously before taking a quick bite of food from his fork.

 

Hannah shrugs, “Reasonable in certain circumstances.” She doesn’t look up from her plate to either of them as she scrapes the sauce from her knife onto her fork.

 

Alan and Doctor Chilton look to Hannah and back to each other warily before Alan speaks up. “What circumstances?”

 

“It may have been useful trying to remind Gideon he’s the Chesapeake Ripper if he repressed those memories, but he seems to have come to that awareness by himself.” Hannah finally looks up as she takes a bite of the meat on her fork and raises her eyebrows at the brunet man across from her.

 

Doctor Chilton clears his throat, calling the attention to himself as if he has something to say. Alan’s gaze lingers on Hannah suspiciously before he looks over to him expectantly. “If he has been unethically manipulated somehow, I need to know. I would love your insight.” Doctor Chilton gives the smaller man a condescending smile as a thanks for letting him speak. Alan’s jaw tightens as his ring clanks against the wine glass when he takes a sip.

 

“Doctor Chilton,” Hannah chimes in before Alan has a chance to respond, drawing the attention taken from her back. The two men look over to Hannah, Doctor Chilton with clear interest and Alan with slight annoyance. “Come help me prepare dessert.” Doctor Chilton quickly stands from his chair, the legs scraping harshly against the hardwood floor. Hannah leads the way to the kitchen and he follows closely behind.

 

Doctor Chilton watches as Hannah garnishes the dessert, his eyes wandering up to her blouse and the fallen strand of hair in her face. He reaches to tuck the hair behind her ear, but she instantly scowls as he moves closer and her eyes quickly shoot up. “I fear you may be getting the wrong idea here, Frederick. I didn’t invite you into my kitchen because I have any interest in you. Doctor Bloom is one who doesn’t tend to wander around my house, and I needed to have a _professional_ and private conversation.” She sighs in annoyance and pushes the strand behind her ear.

 

Doctor Chilton clears his throat, embarrassed, and quickly reaches for grapes to lay carefully on the plate. Hannah continues to garnish the plate, refusing to acknowledge the quick glances he still takes when she leans further over the counter to grab something.

 

“As I was going to say earlier, Doctor Chilton, if I was in your position, I would have attempted psychic driving. Perhaps you already have.” Hannah looks up from the plate to make eye contact with him, her gaze still harsh. “I promise I am much more forgiving of the unorthodox than Doctor Bloom could ever be.”

 

Later that night, Hannah lies on the couch in her living room, her back leaned against the arm and her feet propped up on the other end. Her reading glasses are pushed most of the way up her nose and a dim lamp in the corner lights the room. Her nails tap against the screen of her tablet as she scrolls through her emails, sighing when she sees nothing interesting. She pulls up her browser, which is already opened to the front page of the Tattler website. She refreshes the page to see the most recent article with the headline reading “HOW THE RIPPER RIPS: AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW” and taps to read it. Her eyes narrow as she looks over the image of Doctor Gideon before she begins to pick apart the article. As she reads the closing line, she shakes her head in disapproval and sighs in the same way a disappointed mother would.

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Clarence Starling sits in the vacant waiting room, his leg jittering out of nervous habit. He stops as soon as he catches himself doing it, focusing on keeping a calm and confident demeanor. As soon as he hears the distinct sound of heels against a hardwood floor, he breathes in deep and pushes himself up from the chair. Standing directly in front of the door, he shakes the nervousness out of his hands and stands straighter as soon as he hears the sound of the door knob turning. Hannah swings the door to her office open, slightly taken aback to see someone so eager to greet her.

 

Clarence extends his hand out to Hannah and gives her a bright smile. “Hello, Doctor Lecter, my name is Clarence Starling. I’m with the FBI. I would show my credentials but I’m actually just a trainee. I’m working under Agent Crawford, she said she’s familiar with you.”

 

“Hello, Clarence.” Hannah shakes his hand firmly, surprise evident in her tone at his level of confidence despite only being a trainee. She raises an eyebrow curiously at his heavy southern accent, but doesn’t question it. “You’re lucky to be working with Jacqueline, I can already tell she’ll lead you straight to success in your career. Please, come in.” She moves from where she was leaned against the door to keep it open and nods towards her office.

 

Clarence steps inside and his eyes wander along the paintings on the wall and the bookshelves as he walks slowly behind the older woman. He silently observes as she straightens the papers on her desk, clearing his throat awkwardly and looking away when she looks up to him expectantly. “I was hoping to talk to you about a former patient. I’m not sure if they were one of yours, but someone you had contact with whenever you were a practicing physician.”

 

Hannah sighs, sounding almost disappointed. “It’s been so long since I’ve practiced medicine. If it wasn’t for my good memory, this would certainly be a challenge.” She motions her hand towards the seat in front of her desk. “Please, sit.”

 

Clarence follows her directions and sits down hesitantly. “His name was Jeremy Olmstead.”

 

Hannah’s eyebrows furrow as she sits down in her office chair. “Forgive me for bragging about my memory, that name doesn’t seem to remind me of a patient. It does sound familiar, though.”

 

“He was found murdered in his workshop recently. Evidence is leading us to believe he may be a victim of the Chesapeake Ripper.”

 

“That’s why the name sounds so familiar. It was littered all over the news. I was under the impression that the Ripper was incarcerated, though.”

 

Clarence shakes his head. “No, ma’am. Abel Gideon is a current suspect who’s incarcerated, but there have been too many similar murders for the Bureau to close the case officially.” He explains and lets the silence between them linger for a moment before continuing his questioning, “He had two old scars on his thigh. He had been in a hunting accident where an arrow got stuck through his leg. You weren’t on record as the surgeon but you were working in the ER that night, your name was on the admissions log. It’s been a long time since the incident, but I was wondering if you remember anything suspicious with the arrow wound.”

 

Hannah leans forward, her expression in feigned thought. “I vaguely recall a fellow hunter bringing him in, if it’s the gentleman I’m thinking of. Sadly, there’s not much else I can remember about him.”

 

“I figured this would be a subject hard to pinpoint.” Clarence gives her a smile out of courtesy and begins gathering his things before standing up.

 

“Actually, I kept detailed journals during those days, so you may be able to find something from them.”

 

“If you don’t mind, that could be exactly what I need.”

 

“Not at all.” Hannah gives Clarence a warm smile as she stands from her chair. “If you wait right here, I’ll be right back.”

 

Hannah’s heels click on the hardwood floors as she makes her way over to the ladder to the second floor. Clarence stays still for a moment before looking around the room, this time more in depth and his eyes stop to read along the spines of books. He sets his coat on the chair before he wanders over to analyze the title of a particular book. He moves on when it wasn’t exactly what he was looking for and turns around to see a neat stack of drawings on a table by one of the shelves.

 

Clarence notices the corner of what seems to be a drawing of Wound Man sticking out from underneath a sketch of a woman. He pulls it out to look it over and make sure it really is what he thinks.

 

Hannah climbs back down the ladder without a journal in hand, her sleeves rolled up higher and her heels left on the balcony. She quietly pulls one of the rope ties around her curtain loose and the heavy fabric falls in front of the window, blocking the sunlight from shining onto the trainee. Her bare feet make no sound as she quickly walks over towards the young trainee with tense shoulders.

 

Clarence barely notices the sudden change in lighting as his mind flashes back to the corpse of Jeremy Olmstead, the wounds on his body in the exact same placement and style as the drawing he’s looking at. His eyes widen and he steps back from the table as he puts the drawing back in it’s place.

 

Hannah quietly comes up behind him, wrapping the tie around his neck and pulling the end through the loop. She yanks the end to tighten the rope and wraps her other arm around his torso to pull him into her, more of a cautionary move than a necessary one to be sure he doesn’t slip away from her. Clarence struggles to fight as his vision begins to turn hazy and he loses his footing as she pulls him off the floor, using her height to an advantage. He kicks down the table in front of him and grips his hand in Hannah’s hair as soon as he reaches close enough. She easily moves her head away from his weak grip and pulls the end tighter around his throat, her expression showing clear annoyance when he starts wheezing. He chokes on his last gasp for air and his arms fall limp at his side, no longer trying to grip onto something for his life. Hannah checks his pulse to make sure he isn’t only unconscious and slides the tie off of his neck as she lowers him to lay across the floor. She shakes her head in disapproval as she stares down at him, tucking the hair he’d pulled from her bun behind her ear.

 

“What a shame.” Hannah says as she pushes herself off the ground and stares down at him. “So much wasted potential.”

 

* * *

 

**CRAWFORD RESIDENCE, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

Jacqueline sighs, pressing the buttons on the microwave to heat up leftover takeout from last weekend. She leans against the counter and rubs a knot in her neck from staring at files all day as she watches the timer count down. Her phone vibrates in her pocket, which she quickly pulls out in hopes of hearing news from Philip. She sighs when she reads the caller ID as Alan Bloom and slides it back down in her pocket.

 

The microwave beeps at the same time her phone buzzes, this time as an alert for a text message. Jacqueline pulls her phone out again, figuring it must be something of importance. Her eyebrows furrow in concern as she reads the text from Alan and she quickly slides to accept the call when he makes his second attempt.

 

“Do I need to be sitting down for this?” Jacqueline forces out a soft laugh, trying to ignore the feeling of dread in her stomach.

 

Alan lets out a breathy chuckle, in any kind of attempt to lighten the news. “You might want to be. It’s about Clarence Starling.”

 

Jacqueline takes a seat at one of the counter stools. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

 

Alan takes a deep breath in and sighs. “Clarence is dead. They found him about an hour ago. They were going to let you know first, but I figured you should hear it from a voice you trust.” He pauses, expecting a response but continues when he hears silence on the other end. “I’m sorry, Jacqueline.”

 

* * *

 

**EVERGREEN CHURCH, PARKERSBURG, WEST VIRGINIA**

 

It storms the day of the funeral and the turnout was just as depressing as the weather. Clarence’s professors and fellow peers come out of a sense of obligation, but otherwise the church is empty. Willow comes inside half an hour after the service starts to avoid a crowd and wipes her feet on the red welcome rug inside before making her way into the sanctuary. A few students dressed in ill-fitting black dresses and button downs stand, chatting quietly. She gives them polites nods and as she passes by them she can tell the discussion isn’t about their late student.

 

Annoyed by their disrespect, she sighs quietly and walks a bit faster to the front where Jacqueline sits at a pew. She sits next to her, the wooden back creaking as she leans back against it. Jacqueline looks tired, but is free of tear streaks on her cheeks and her eyes are dry.

 

She sighs deeply. “What does it mean when a new body- presumably produced by the Chesapeake Ripper- appears, and then less than a week later one of my trainee’s is found strangled to death in a gutter downtown?”

 

“It means she’s angry.” Willow explains, lips curling into a resentful frown, “She’s like a child that isn’t getting enough attention.”

 

Jacqueline nods and throws her hands up in defeat as she leans back. “So this is her tantrum?”

 

“You could say that.” Willow says, letting silence settle between them before she folds her hands over her lap and nods to the altar where clear vase of white lilies rests on the carpet in front of the closed casket. “Who brought the flowers?”

 

“Doctor Lecter did.” Jacqueline turns to look back towards the door and then to Willow. “She’s outside now, you might be able to catch her if you hurry.”

 

Willow nods and stands, pulling her dress further down her thighs where it had slid up when she sat. “I’ll say hi and then I’ll probably take off. Funerals aren’t really my thing. Too many crying people.”

 

Jacqueline cracks an amused smile at that, “Sure. Thanks for coming, Willow. I’m sorry.”

 

Willow shakes her head dismissively, giving Jacqueline an indiscernible look, “No, I’m alright. It’s always a strange feeling to lose a trainee out in the field, but I guess it’s just strange that I’m not going to see him in class after break.” Willow notices the way that Jacqueline looks towards her lap and continues, “I’m sorry this happened to _you_.”

 

Jacqueline nods, “He was a good kid. Always smiling. He would have made a great agent.”

 

“Yeah… It’s a shame.” Willow mutters her condolences before excusing herself, making her way back out to the hallway and finally taking her first deep breath since she arrived. Shaking off the tense atmosphere, she walks down the hall, heels silent on the carpeted floor, and glances out the window to her left. Rain streaks down the glass and she sees Hannah with her back facing the window, so she takes the closest exit out a dark wooden door to the right of it.

 

Hannah glances up and smiles, a cigarette hung loosely between her lips as she flicks the striker wheel to light it. The flame lights up her face under the shade of the awning hanging over them and it disappears when she closes the lid and slips it into the pocket of her black trench coat.

 

“Good morning, Willow.” Hannah greets, and Willow watches her suck in smoke, the ember lighting up orange when she does so. Hannah blows the smoke away from the brunette, holding it between two fingers and flicking ashes on the pavement. Willow eyes the dark red lipstick marks on the foot of her cigarette before she hums and leans her back against the brick wall behind them.

 

“Good morning. I didn’t take you as a smoker.”

 

“Ugly habit I formed during my school days. I’d tell all my friends I did it socially but stress became the main reason.” Hannah laughs through her nose before holding the cigarette up to her lips again and dragging it, turning her head to blow the smoke away from Willow again. “So sorry for your loss. It’s a terrible thing to lose someone you’re close to.”

 

“Have you lost anyone you were close to?”

 

“It’s easier to ask me if I have anyone I’m close to now.” Hannah scoffs before turning to look directly at Willow. “But to answer your question, I’ve only lost a few people who I’ve been close to. The rest of my losses are more accurately described as loved ones ripped away from me right where I can see.”

 

Willow holds their eye contact for a long moment before her gaze falls to the pavement beneath her feet. Silence falls between them for a while, the only sound coming from the chatter inside the church and the rain hitting the cloth awning above them.

 

“I’m sorry.” Willow finally says, looking back up to watch Hannah take the final drag off her cigarette before dropping it on the ground and stepping on it, twisting her foot to ash it into the concrete. She tucks a loose strand of silvery brown hair behind her ear and turns and bends at her knees to pick up the black umbrella propped up against the wall behind her.

  
“Don’t be.” She says, but she accepts her consolation with a thankful smile, holding her umbrella out in front of her and opening it. She holds it above her head and steps out from under the awning, tilting her umbrella invitingly. “Come with me, darling. You and I are both far from home, let me treat you to breakfast before the journey back.”


	4. Sorbet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names:  
> Will Graham - Willow Graham  
> Hannibal Lecter - Hannah Lecter  
> Abigail Hobbs - Abraham Hobbs  
> Alana Bloom - Alan Bloom  
> Clarice Starling - Clarence Starling  
> Jack Crawford - Jacqueline Crawford  
> Bedelia Du Maurier - Bedilayn Du Maurier  
> Freddie Lounds - Freddy Lounds  
> Mason Verger - Macy Verger  
> Margot Verger - Marco Verger
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF MURDER, CORPSES, MENTAL DISINTEGRATION, DISSOCIATIONS, AND NONRECREATIONAL DRUG USE

**F.B.I ACADEMY, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

“The Chesapeake Ripper kills in threes.”

 

Willow stands at the front of her class, leaned against her desk as she speaks. Where her shoulder cuts off the corner of the photo projected on the wall behind her, the light from its projection on her shirt dimly lightens her face and glares off her glasses. The incessant sound of typing surrounds her from her students’ note taking, mixed with the dull sounds of shuffling and the hum of the outdated projector. The picture behind her shows a man’s neck cut through with a cleaver, his body limp and hanging by mere threads of muscle from his throat. Drying, sticky blood is splattered on the wall where he’s pinned, and blood poured from his neck puddled below.

 

“First, Bronys Grentz nine years ago in Annapolis. I was called into the case when I was twenty-five, and I know just as much about the Ripper now as I did then.”

 

Click. The next slide shows a victim strung up on a cathedral ceiling, disemboweled and flayed with his abdominal skin stretched and tacked to his wrists like a butterfly.

 

“Next, Matteo Deogracias, three months later in Essex.”

 

Click. Click. Click. The reflections of the brutal tableaus shine in Willow’s glasses and she finally stops on the photo of Jeremy Olmstead.

 

“She didn’t kill for another nine years as far as we are aware, or at least she didn’t display them. Four weeks ago, on a missing persons investigation, local police discovered Jeremy Olmstead like this in his workshop in Baltimore. Autopsy showed he died five days prior. If we go by our activity schedule from nine years ago, we can expect to see another victim in less than two months.” Willow explains, standing from where she was leaned on her desk to turn the projector off. She walks to the front of the room by the door and flips the lights back on before she continues to speak.

 

“I won’t be taking questions today because I have an idea of what they’ll all be. Yes, we’re sure this is the Ripper’s work. No, Abel Gideon is _not_ the Ripper. Yes, I believe the Ripper is a woman, and…” Willow pauses as she moves back to her desk, closing her laptop lid. “Yes, she is probably, if not definitely, a lesbian. Class dismissed.”

 

Willow watches her students pack up their things and walk down the steps from their lecture tables, waving and saying short goodbyes to their professor as they shuffle towards the door. Willow gives them polite nods as she packs up herself, sliding her laptop into her messenger bag and stacking folders up. She instinctively moves slower, waiting for her most enthusiastic student to ask her curious questions about the latest crime scene.

 

She pauses and looks up, heart sinking when her eyes meet the table in the front that Clarence Starling formerly sat at. She sighs and looks back down to her bag, quickly stuffing her folders in her bag and zipping it up, hurrying to sling it over her shoulder and walk out the door, turning the lights out on her way.

 

* * *

 

**PORT HAVEN PSYCHIATRIC FACILITY, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

“I can hide what happened to me. All I need is a scarf.”

 

Alan and Abraham walk together down the stone path through the flower gardens of the comfortable facility, having a casual therapy session. Alan gives him a gentle look of disapproval, but his expression changes to fondness when Abraham looks up at him sheepishly.

 

“Hiding what happened to you defeats the purpose of being here, Abe. Sharing will help you normalize.”

 

Abraham’s cheeks flush lightly when Alan calls him ‘Abe’, looking away from the man shyly and bringing a hand up to fuss with his blue plaid scarf. Alan watches him and his gentle expression falters and changes to that of sympathy when the angry pink scar on the side of Abraham’s throat is revealed, but he looks away when Abraham covers it back up.

 

“I’m not normal. Not anymore, at least.” Abraham finally says after a moment of comfortable silence passes between them. Alan frowns at that comment, putting a hand on his back absent-mindedly while he speaks.

 

“What happened to you wasn’t normal. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

 

Abraham smiles at the comfort and Alan relaxes when he sees the teen’s mood lightening. Abraham laughs softly, stopping to take a seat on the bench he and Willow sat at three months ago. Alan takes a seat next to him, their thighs touching lightly when Abraham turns to face him.

 

“One of the women here won’t share anything. She speaks in a little girl voice and fidgets a lot, but she’s nice. She reminds me a lot of Willow, she doesn’t like making eye contact.”

 

“Certain traumas arrest vocal and social development like childhood sexual abuse or neglect. Age regression is common, the victims have a hard time thinking outside of the trauma.”

 

“Not me.” Abraham mumbles, adjusting his scarf uncomfortably.

 

“But thanks to Freddy Lounds, everyone else is thinking about your trauma so you don’t have to.”

 

“I’m like a celebrity victim. Some girl here asked me if I kept my stained clothes like I was the girl who gave President Clinton oral or something.”

 

“How did you react?”

 

Abraham looks away from the older man and sighs through his nose, gazing off at the rows of dying red and pink tulips and white daisies across the stone path from the bench they sit on. “I mean… I told her I didn’t. I figure the hospital threw them away. It made me want to go home, but then again I don’t really have a home anymore, do I?”

 

“I’ll help you find one.” Alan offers and Abraham smiles weakly at that, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

 

“It would have been my mom’s birthday tomorrow. We were all gonna go hiking up Eagle Mountain to celebrate. It’s the highest point in Minnesota even though it isn’t really that high and you can see Lake Superior from there. We were gonna have a picnic when we reached summit. She was really excited.”

 

“We could spread her ashes there if you want.”

 

“I’d like that.” Abe says with a slow nod.

 

“Abraham, I want you to try these support groups again.”

 

“Support groups are sucking the life out of me.” Abraham says with a stubborn scoff and Alan tilts his head, face tense with concern.

 

“And staying isolated will suck the life out of you, too. You need to find someone you can relate to who can help you through this experience.”

 

“I can relate to you.” Abraham says softly, turning his head to look back at Alan. Alan’s eyes widen in surprise at the teenager’s honesty, but his gaze softens and he offers him a warm smile.

 

“Let’s go back inside.”

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S HOUSE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Hannah slides a clear teapot out of her away, allowing the mushrooms she’s placed in the hot water time to steep. She picks up her knife and halfway peeled potato, picking up from where she left off before brewing the tea. She carefully slides the knife along the edge, discarding the skin of the potato once the knife meets her thumb. Abraham stands in front of the counter, watching her in silence.

 

“It’s important to know when it’s the right time for you to turn the page to a new chapter in life.” Hannah glances up from where she works to acknowledge him. “Have you thought about applying to any colleges?”

 

“My applications to any colleges I thought about got trashed.”

 

Hannah pauses her cutting and nods her head. “Maybe we should hold off on that, then.”

 

“I want to work for the F.B.I.”

 

Hannah looks over at Abraham and gives him a warm, motherly smile. “I would certainly feel safer in my everyday life knowing that you were working for the F.B.I.”

 

“They wouldn’t let me, would they? Because of what my dad did.”

 

“You’re not your father’s son anymore.” Hannah assures and Abraham falls silent. She leans closer over the counter and looks him in the eye. “It’s painful when you think of him. But what if it wasn’t so painful anymore?”

 

“My dad?”

 

“Yes.” Hannah wipes her hands on her apron after she sets down her knife. “Have you ever tried psilocybin?”

 

“Mushrooms?” Abraham glances at the teapot, fussing with his dark green scarf tied around his neck nervously. “That’s what’s in the tea?”

 

Hannah nods her head as she walks around to the other end of the counter where she left the tea. “There’s a world of psychiatrists who believe altered states could be used to access traumatic memories.”

 

“I have unlimited access to all the traumatic memories I need.” Abraham mutters, watching Hannah’s back as she turns to get a teacup from one of the overhead cabinets hanging above one of the metal stoves. She returns and sets it down, pushing the sleeves of her light blue button down further up her elbows.

 

“Which is why we need to replace them with positive associations.” Hannah holds the tea cup in place, her long nails tapping lightly against the porcelain , and carefully pours the tea. She only fills the cup halfway, since it’s an especially strong brew. “No more nightmares, Abraham.”

 

“You want me to do drugs?”

 

“I want you to do this particular one under my supervision. I assure you this is safe.” Hannah slides the white cup she’s poured for him across the counter and raises her eyebrows questioningly at him. “Do you trust me?”

 

Hannah holds the door open patiently for Alan as he storms in past her. He’s clearly annoyed, but stays silent as he tries to find the right words to express it. He takes a deep breath in and exhales, trying to control his temper, but his shoulders stay tense.

 

“I never expected this from a woman who makes _such_ a big deal about common courtesy. I would say I’m a little taken aback, but I’m a lot taken aback that you would check out _my patient_ from the hospital. And without my permission!” Alan huffs as he takes off his jacket, throwing his hands up in disbelief after he drapes it over his arm. Hannah stays quiet, watching the shorter man’s anger diffuse slowly. His red cheeks recede and go pale again and he sighs softly, as if the yelling had taken a lot out of him. “You know, scolding isn’t a skill I pride myself in in the professional world. Don’t make me do this again.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Hannah gives him a look of feigned remorse when he looks at her, expecting more of an apology.

 

“It’s just rude, Hannah. _Shockingly_ rude, especially coming from you.”

 

“You have every right to be upset with me. I may have overstepped my bounds.”

 

Alan waves off that comment and shoves his coat on the coat rack by the door, eyeing Hannah. “Where is he?”

 

“He’s in the dining room.”

 

Alan nods and turns to walk down the hallway, but Hannah rests a hand on his shoulder and stills him once more. “Alan, you were right.”

 

Alan laughs and shakes her hand off his shoulder, watching it drop back to her side before he looks back up at her, “I often am. You may want to be more specific?”

 

“He was far from ready to leave the hospital.” Hannah glances in the direction of her dining room, as though she’s worried Abraham might have moved. “He started experiencing some anxiety immediately, so I gave him a sedative.”

 

“A _sedative_!? What did you give him!?” Alan asks, crossing his arms as his anger slowly building back up at her words, but before he has the chance to shout again, she defends herself.

 

“Only half a valium. He’s a little hazy, so he may say some things he would never normally.”

 

Alan opts not to say any more about the matter and only narrows his eyes at the woman, turning again to walk down the long, dimly lit hallway. When he reaches the glass double doors leading to the dining room, he sucks in a sharp breath in preparation to see his sedated patient before opening one of the doors.

 

“Hi, Doctor Bloom.” Abraham greets happily from his seat, looking up from the napkin he’d been fidgeting with to watch the man walk towards the table. Hannah trails behind him and rolls down her sleeves, now without her apron. She sits at the end of the table and pours a glass of fresh orange juice for Abraham, handing it to the boy who takes it eagerly.

 

Alan offers a kind, pitying smile, speaking gently, “Hello, Abraham.” His gaze drops from the teenager to the table, looking at the omelettes, crumpets, and lightly fried vegetables that fill plates at the end of the table where three place settings are prepared. “You were expecting me?”

 

“Not necessarily. Since I should stay honest with you, we were hoping for Willow Graham to come along. All of the missed calls lead me to believe she won’t be offended if you take her place, though. So, please. Have a seat.“

 

Alan pulls the seat across from Abraham out and sits as instructed, picking up the napkin on his plate and folding it over his lap. Hannah takes his glass and pours orange juice in it, handing it back to him and setting the glass pitcher down again.

 

“Are you hungry? Hannah made breakfast for dinner.” Abraham says.

 

Alan smiles, “I could eat.”

 

Abraham’s vision blurs and refocuses, Hannah and Alan becoming Garrett and Louise Hobbs in his mind. Hannah turns her head to direct her attention to the loopy boy on her right, and her eyebrows raise curiously when he smiles widely.

 

“What is it, Abraham? What do you see?” Hannah asks, but her voice sounds muffled and distant to Abraham.

 

“I see family.”

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Hannah runs her fingers along the spines of her books, searching for a specific book on child psychology. “Tell me about your mother.”

 

Willow raises an eyebrow in amusement, chuckling to herself, “Low hanging fruit you’re reaching for.” She wanders the lower level of the office, stopping at Hannah’s desk and thumbing through a couple of her drawings before moving on. “You’re getting lazy on me, Doctor Lecter.” She mutters as an afterthought, thick Louisiana drawl making Hannah’s name sound closer to ‘Doctah Lectah.’

 

“I suspect that the fruit you mentioned hangs on a rather high branch. Difficult to reach, from my perspective.”

 

“So is my mother. I never knew her.”

 

“An interesting place to start.”

 

“Why don’t you tell me about your mother? You mentioned loss of family at Starling’s funeral, so let’s start there. Quid pro quo.”

 

“Take this as you will, but I never expected to be so impressed by your use of latin.” Hannah smirks to herself before her expression falls and she continues with a sullen tone, “Most of what I remember about my mother is from when I was no more than three. Of course, even then she never sat down much since she always had obligations around the manor. More often than not I was in the care of my nanny instead of my mother. My baby sister came along and obviously more of the time was devoted to her, but I was one to stick around and help as much as I could. I felt some kind of motherly obligation towards my sister, even from a young age when my mother was still around. On my mother, though, she was definitely gone too soon. Fate played out and I watched from a window only until I felt it was safe enough to find her corpse in the snow. Regardless, she was a wonderful woman.”

 

Willow looks up with wide eyes when Hannah makes her way down the ladder, handing her a book about surviving childhood trauma. Willow glances down at the cover and runs her palm over it before looking back up at the taller woman in front of her, silent as she thinks.

 

“And your father?” Willow asks carefully.

 

“He’s a different story. Being head of the Lecter family, he was the busiest of everyone. My sister and I never got to see him much, but he always saw to meet our needs. He noticed me showing interest in literature and mathematics and got a tutor as soon as he could to further my understanding. He was distant, but I still felt his love. He was sweet to both me and my sister, as a father of two girls should be. His last goodbye only felt like one after he didn’t turn up again. It left us with a hope for a return, but it was better than a definite last word. Even now, no one has heard anything of his death, all my family was left with was presumptions.”

 

“You have an orphan in common with Abraham Hobbs.” Willow says in a soft voice as she makes eye contact with Hannah, understanding her a little more clearly than before.

 

Hannah offers a tight lipped smile, though contemptment burns in her dark brown eyes. Willow recognizes this isn’t directed at her, but she still tears her gaze away for some relief and moves to sit down in her leather chair. Hannah follows and sits across from her, picking up the patient file on the table next to her chair.

 

“You will find that you and I have a great deal in common with Abraham.” She says as she jots down something in quick cursive before looking back up at the woman across from her, “Quid pro quo.”

 

Willow accepts the throw reluctantly, sitting back in her seat and sighing, “There’s something so foreign about family. Never really connected to the concept.”

 

“But now you’ve created a family of your own.”

 

“By collecting strays?”

 

“I was referring to Abraham Hobbs.”

 

Hannah lets Willow get used to that idea before she points to the wrapped gift on the table next to Willow’s chair. “Has Christmas come early this year? Or is it a little late, perhaps?”

 

Willow eyes Hannah warily at the murderous insinuation, but shakes it off and picks up the rectangular box, fidgeting with the green ribbon tied around the gift.

 

“It was for Abraham.”

 

“Was?”

 

Willow nods, “I thought better of it. Wasn’t thinking clearly, I was upset when I bought it. Maybe still am.”

 

“You bare gifts when you’re upset?”

 

“Better gifts than teeth.”

 

Hannah smirks at Willow’s comment and nods towards the hand-wrapped gift. “What is it?”

 

“Fly tying gear.”

 

Hannah raises an eyebrow questioningly. “Teaching him how to fish? His father taught him how to hunt.”

 

“That’s why I thought against it.”

 

“Feeling maternal?”

 

“Aren’t you?” Willow questions, raising an eyebrow to mirror Hannah.

 

“Yes.” Hannah admits, “Doctor Bloom advised us against developing a personal relationship with Abraham.”

 

Hannah begins to jot down a note and looks up at Willow before continuing her flow of writing. “Why were you upset?”

 

“I’m upset about these boys. I’m upset that I couldn’t help them in time, that I couldn’t give their parents back what Garret Jacob Hobbs took away from them.”

 

“Family.”

 

“Yes.” Willow says quietly.

 

“Freddy Lounds is calling those boys the Blood Brothers.”

 

“Alan and I are calling them the Lost Boys.”

 

“Abraham is lost too. Perhaps it is our responsibility, yours and mine, to help him find his way.” Hannah offers Willow a comforting yet unnerving smile. “Almost as if he’s our son.”

 

* * *

 

**WILLOW GRAHAM’S HOUSE, WOLF TRAP, VIRGINIA**

 

Hannah Lecter’s white Bentley pulls into the gravel driveway and parks swiftly off the edge of the driveway. She reaches over to the passenger seat to grab a brown paper bag before opening her door. She finds her footing on the gravel as she peers into the windows to notice all of the dogs huddled into the living room, their heads turned in the direction of the sound of a car door closing. Hannah steps hesitantly up the old wood stairs, heels barely clicking against the soft wood. She unfolds the top of the paper bag and pulls out a link of sausages, twisting two on the end off and setting the rest back in the bag on the porch.

 

The dogs all crowd the door as she steps inside, squeezing through the door so as none of them run out. She shoos them off as they all sniff at her hand and throws them pieces of the sausage. They all rush to catch them and quickly look for any pieces that may have fallen on the floor as she pushes her way through them. She wanders over to the old piano and presses a few keys that all produce off-tune pitches. Her eyes fall on an old boat motor while she looks around the room and she lingers for a second before moving on. Hannah searches through the cedar dresser, disappointed in only finding several sets of jeans and flannels along with the identical white bras and panties that all look a little too worn.

 

She looks towards the desk cluttered with Willow’s fly tying gear and raises an eyebrow as she wanders towards it. She pushes the magnifying glass out of her way and sits down in the wooden chair. She observes the almost finished tie carefully, noting the craftsmanship put into it.

 

She selects another feather from the ones laid out and places it in just the right place. Hannah takes the string and wraps it around the end tightly before knotting it off. She glides her finger along the newly added feather and smirks.

 

Hannah carefully takes the hook from its stand to hold it close to her eye. She straightens a piece of the brown hair that sticks out further than any of the feathers, making sure it looks just right.

 

She presses the end of the hook into her thumb with her index finger, allowing it to puncture enough to form a small droplet of blood on her thumb. She smiles as she releases the pressure on the sharp end and pulls it away from her fingers.

 

Hannah eyes the perfect droplet that formed on her left thumb and slowly lifts it to her mouth. She wraps her lips around her thumb and pulls it away from her mouth, giving it almost a quick kiss. She wipes away the lipstick residue on the side of her index finger and places the now finished fly tie on the stand.

 

* * *

 

**BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA**

 

Jacqueline sits at her desk, sipping lukewarm coffee from a white mug, small in her heavy hands. She reads on her laptop, the front page of _The National Tattler_ ’s website shining bright in her reading glasses’ lenses. There’s a light knocking on her door and she looks up when it opens and Willow steps in the doorway.

 

“Morning.” Jacqueline greets and Willow takes this as a cue to come in and closes the door behind her as she approaches Jacqueline’s desk.

 

“Good morning. Can I talk to you?”

 

“I’m all ears.” Jacqueline says, closing the lid of her laptop halfway and looking up at her agent over her glasses.

 

Willow sighs, “I just wanted to apologize about my behavior at Starling’s funeral.”

 

“What behavior?”

 

Willow looks puzzled momentarily, but shakes it off easily and covers it with a seemingly casual shrug, continuing, “I wasn’t feeling myself.”

 

“I don’t think anyone was.”

 

“Suppose so.” Willow mutters and hesitates before speaking again, “I seemed fine to you?”

 

“Something you want to tell me?”

 

“No.”

 

Jacqueline sighs, tired of having to dance around personal problems the same way a mother of a toddler does. “Then there’s something you _don’t_ want to tell me.”

 

Willow stays quiet and Jacqueline leans forward, looking directly at her. She sighs, her expression a mix disappointment and concern.

 

“If there’s a problem, you need to tell me.” Jacqueline pauses, trying to read any indicator in Willow’s expression. “Is there a problem, Willow?”

 

“Everything’s fine.”

 

“Well, in that case.” Jacqueline begins, opening her laptop lid again to continue reading while she speaks, “Nicholas Boyle was found in Minnesota last night. Dead. Frozen under snow and ice by a river. Today’s the first day it’s been warm enough to thaw him out. They couldn’t say if he died this week or eight weeks ago when he went missing.”

 

“How did he die?”

 

“Knife wound. He’d been gutted. I had his body flown down here. I want Abraham Hobbs to identify him.”

 

Willow’s eyes narrow some before she speaks, “You already have a positive I.D.”

 

Jacqueline looks up again. “Not by Abraham Hobbs.”

 

“You can’t put him in a room with Nick Boyle’s body. He already has nightmares about him.”

 

“I’m curious why.”

 

“You don’t seriously believe he had something to do with this, do you?” Willow asks incredulously, eyes widened in disbelief at her boss’ words.

 

“I think Abraham Hobbs is a common denominator.” Jacqueline’s tone becomes harsher as soon as Willow starts to fight back. “His father, Emil Nichols, Cameron Boyle, Maurice Schuur, and Nicholas Boyle all come back to him. He may not have killed him, but I think he’s hiding something.”

 

“If you’re going to put Abraham in a room with his body, I want to be there.”

 

“No.” Jacqueline says firmly, “I’m not confident in your ability to be objective when it comes to Abraham Hobbs. Doctor Bloom will be there in the event of any breakdowns.”

 

“And you think _Alan_ has the ability to be more objective than I do?” She scoffs, “The kid has a crush on him, he’s the last person that should be there!”

 

“The difference between you and Doctor Bloom is that you have adopted him.” Jacqueline looks away to double check her email before she slowly closes the lid to her laptop, this time completely. She immediately looks back at Willow, as though her next statement is an accusation. “Doctor Bloom knows how to keep his distance, regardless of Hobbs’ feelings.”

 

“You could do irreparable damage to Abraham by exposing him to this.”

 

Jacqueline shrugs, leaning back in her chair. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

 

* * *

 

**???**

 

Hannah’s eyes follow Willow as she paces back and forth in front of her, agitated. She stays silent as she watches, too worried to pry about her troubles. Willow stares down the rug beneath her feet as she walks, arms crossed over her chest and eyebrows scrunched in concern.

 

“I don’t know how I got here.” Willow finally says shakily in a panic.

 

Hannah stays quiet for a beat, formulating a response that won’t result in more panic, “Your car is outside, so you must have driven. Even if you’re not sure how, I’m glad you still managed to safely get here. Have a seat.”

 

“I was just now talking to Jacqueline. I was in her office back in Quantico and she was telling me about Nick Boyle’s body showing up in Minnesota, and…” Her voice trails off and she stops pacing, turning to Hannah where she sits with one leg crossed over the other in one of the leather chairs. She sighs through her nose when their eyes meet, shoulders untensing a fraction and her gaze softening. “I blinked and I woke up in your waiting room, but I wasn’t sleeping.”

 

“You said they found Nicholas Boyle’s body?”

 

Willow gives Hannah an annoyed look before she turns to sit in the chair across from the older woman. Hannah smirks when she turns around, eyeing her before quickly straightening her expression when Willow sits and looks at her expectantly.

 

“Quantico is nearly two hours from here.” Hannah gives her the same pitying look a doctor would give to their patient, then, “You’ve lost time.”

 

“Something’s wrong with me.” Willow says flatly when she sees the pity in Hannah’s eyes.

 

“You’re dissociating, Willow. It’s not uncommon to experience dissociations when you’ve been put through abuse.”

 

“I’m not abused.” Willow defends.

 

“Perhaps not, but you are autistic and you have an empathy disorder. All that you feel is overwhelming you.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Yet you still consciously ignore it. That’s the abuse that I’m referring to. You repeatedly put yourself through it in your work.”

 

“You want me to quit?” Willow asks, eyes widening in surprise before they narrow again skeptically, tone going heavy with accusation. “You’re the one who okayed my return to the field.”

 

“It felt appropriate at the time. The more I’m getting to know you, I feel it may have been a mistake.”

 

Willow glares at Hannah, jaw ticking, “I can’t quit. I save lives.”

 

“And that feels good. It gives you some sense of relief after all that you put yourself through.”

 

“Generally speaking, yes.” Willow says, shrugging and leaning back in her chair as she lets her gaze trail down to the rug again.

 

Hannah sighs and folds her hands over her lap, worry washing over her expression before she speaks again, “Darling, I couldn’t care less about the lives you save. The life I care about is yours. And lately, your life is separating from reality.”

 

“Maybe I should get a brain scan.” Willow mutters, tucking a strand of thick brown curls behind her ear before she continues, “It could be something viral, with all the hallucinations and sleepwalking.”

 

Hannah’s eyes narrow before she speaks, “You empathize so completely with the killers Jacqueline Crawford has your mind wrapped around that you lose yourself to them.” She forces her irritation down and her expression goes concerned and she speaks gently once more, “I’m worried about you, Willow.”

 

“I’m worried too.”

 

“Aside from your recent dissociation, have you experienced any other... similar instances?” Hannah asks carefully and she watches Willow hesitantly nod.

 

Silence hangs heavy in the air between them for a long moment before Hannah reaches to pick up her notebook and pen from the table on her right. She clicks the pen and uncrosses her legs, reaching to hand them to Willow. Willow takes the items curiously and Hannah explains, “I want you to draw a clock face. Numbered. Large hand to the current hour, and smaller hand to the minute.”

 

Willow hesitates, “Why?”

 

“An exercise. Nothing more. I want to see if this is an urgent matter that needs immediate medical attention, or if this is simply psychological.”

 

“It feels like you have my wrists bound.” Willow complains softly, looking down at the thick white paper on her lap.

 

Hannah smirks, “Not just yet.”

 

Willow's cheeks dust pink and she glances up at the woman across from her, but before she has a chance to reply Hannah gestures to the notebook. “Indulge me.”

 

With that, Willow looks back down and starts with drawing the circle.

 

“Think of the time. Think of where you are and who you are.” Hannah offers, watching carefully as Willow starts to write the numbers.

 

“It's 7:16 PM. I’m in Baltimore, Maryland.” She pauses to quickly scratch angry lines for the hands of the clock, “My name is Willow Graham.”

 

Willow sets the pen down on top of the notebook and passes it back to Hannah, clearly unimpressed by this exercise. Hannah leans forward and takes the notebook, tapping the base of the pen against it rhythmically as she looks at the drawing. Though the clock appeared to be correct in Willow’s eyes, it really was all scrambled. The numbers are stacked and scribbled shakily together on the right side of the circle and the hands of the clock reach the edges of the paper. Hannah stops tapping her pen and keeps a straight face as she flips the page to jot down a note in quick cursive. She tears it out and reaches to hand it to Willow.

 

Willow’s gaze trails up her arm and they make brief eye contact before she sighs and leans forward to take it. Leaning back, she reads the address and phone number written on it before Hannah explains, “Even though your drawing was nothing out of the ordinary, if you are genuinely concerned that this may be a neurological problem, I can refer you to an old colleague of mine. Doctor Sutcliffe and I attended the same medical school before we parted ways. Her office is in New York, so it is a bit of a drive, but she’s the best at what she does.”

 

Willow nods slowly and stuffs the note in the front pocket of her jeans before saying, “I’d appreciate that, thank you.”

 

Hannah’s nails tap impatiently on her folder as she leans back in the chair, as though something is bothering her. Still, she offers Willow a warm smile. “It’s my pleasure.”

 

* * *

 

**BEDILAYN DU MAURIER’S HOUSE, SILVER SPRING, MARYLAND**

 

Doctor Bedilayn Du Maurier opens the door, level expression falling when he sees the woman in the doorway. He sighs deeply, but still moves out of the way so she can come inside. “Good evening, Hannah.”

 

The two sit across from each other in identical black leather chairs in the center of Bedilayn’s living room, circular glass coffee table between them holding a vase of butterfly weed, hemlock, and yellow gentians. Aside from the vase are two bottles of wine, red and white, labels obscured from the low lighting in the room. Bedilayn leans back in his chair, hands folded over his lap as he stares at Hannah before speaking slowly, “This always goes better if I’m completely honest with you.”

 

Hannah sits opposite of him, leaned back comfortably in her chair as though it’s a casual conversation. She raises her eyebrows questioningly. “What would be the point of being here otherwise?”

 

“Well, one of us has to be honest.”

 

Hannah raises her eyebrows and the corner of her lip curls into a smirk. “I’m honest.”

 

Bedilayn offers a forced smile, but his eyes narrow in suspicion at her blatant lie. “You aren’t.”

 

“As honest as anyone.”

 

“Not really.” He says with a small shrug, “I have conversations with a version of you and I have to hope the actual you gets what she needs.”

 

“A version of me?”

 

Bedilayn stays quiet, lost in thought, before he continues. “You’re wearing a veil. I can still see you from this side, but your features are obstructed.”

 

“I’d rather call it a human shield.” Hannah laughs lightly, trying to elicit some kind of reaction from him.

 

“I’m sure you would.” Bedilayn says bitterly, corner of his lips twitching in annoyance at her words. He sucks in a deep breath and sighs, “You’re a complicated woman, Hannah. I can’t imagine that being anything but lonely.”

 

“I have friends.” Hannah lingers on her words, as though it’s not the whole truth. “And opportunities for friends.”

 

“On the other side of veil.”

 

“You and I are friendly.” Hannah shrugs, crossing her legs.

 

Bedilayn scoffs, “Yes, and now that your hour is up I’ll pour you a glass of wine, but I’ll still be drinking it on this side of the veil.”

 

“Why do you bother?”

 

“I see enough of you to see the truth of you. And I like you.” Bedilayn admits, standing from his chair to cross his living room, stopping at a stand up cabinet to retrieve two wineglasses.

 

Hannah smiles as her head follows Bedilayn across the room, giving him a lookover as he grabs the glasses.

 

“Red or white?” He asks, making his way back to the table in front of Hannah.

 

Hannah gives him a sly smile when he turns to look at her for an answer. “I think something pink, don’t you?”

 

* * *

 

**???**

 

_Willow and Abraham stand side by side, knee deep in the warm water of the river under the mid morning sun. Fishing rods in hand, they wait patiently for a grab, listening to the quiet stream flow and the birds chirp overhead. There’s a soft rustling in the woods behind them and Abraham turns to look, his legs causing the water to ring around him and splash up his jeans further. He stares behind them for a long moment before turning back to Willow._

 

_“Mom?” He calls softly._

 

_“Yes?”_

 

_“There’s someone else here.”_

 

Hannah hesitantly approaches Willow, watching her with a close eye for any sudden movements. She glances down at the table littered in crime scene photos before looking back to her distant patient. “Willow?” She gives her a worried smile whenever she snaps out of her haze. “I have a 24-hour cancellation policy, I thought I had made that clear.”

 

Willow’s eyebrows scrunch in thought and she takes her glasses off, folding the arms and setting them on the table in front of her before she suddenly remembers her appointment. “What time is it?”

 

“It’s a quarter to eight, dear.”

 

“At night?” Willow asks, surprised, before her tone drops remorsefully. “I’m sorry.”

 

“No apology is necessary.”

 

“I must have fallen asleep.” She mutters, quiet for a moment, then, “Was I sleepwalking?”

 

“I wouldn’t say you were sleepwalking,” Hannah walks to the end of the table to stand closer to Willow and continues, “I also wouldn’t say you were fully present. Your eyes were open, staring at nothing in particular.”

 

Willow hums and nods, looking back down at the crime scene photos. “I felt like I was asleep. Really I should stop sleeping altogether.” Willow says with a light chuckle before her expression falls flat again. “Best way to avoid the nightmares.”

 

Hannah looks over the crime scene photos spread in front of Willow for the second time, shaking her head. Her gaze falls to the familiar corpse of Jeremy Olmstead, impaled by a dozen arrows on his workbench. “I can see why you have to deal with bad dreams in the first place.”

 

Willow lets the silence hang between them before she looks up at Hannah and asks, “What do _you_ see, doctor?”

 

Hannah picks up the photo of Jeremy to analyze the photo further. “Displaying one’s enemy after death has its appeal in many cultures.”

 

“These aren’t the Ripper’s enemies. These are… pests she’s swatted away.”

 

“The punishment for their cruelty?”

 

“No, she isn’t bothered by cruelty.” Willow pauses, “These dissections are to humiliate them. This is public shaming.”

 

Hannah sets down the photo and looks over the entire spread of photos, new victims and old. Willow was trying to make a connection, to retrace her steps. “Why do you think the killer primarily targets men?”

 

Willow puffs out a long breath and shrugs, “I’m not sure. Could have something to do with childhood trauma. She had a bad experience with a father or a brother, or maybe an unrelated man did something to her. Could be related to sexuality. Lesbians, whether they intend to or not, usually have some level of displeasure towards all men.”

 

The corners of Hannah’s mouth form a half smile, admiring Willow’s attention to detail. “And what about you, Willow?”

 

Willow chuckles lightly, “I don’t think I’m good company for anyone, given my circumstances.”

 

Hannah glances down at Willow and forces a laugh. “I wouldn’t say that.” She rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed by her dismissiveness, as she walks to stand in the dark haired woman’s view. “I would still suggest you cancel in advance if you sense something like this happening again.”

 

* * *

 

**PORT HAVEN PSYCHIATRIC FACILITY, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Abraham sits up in bed, quilts covering his legs as he looks out the window to his left away from the women sitting on his bed, watching the snow fall silently. He sighs, “I don’t want to see him.” He says finally, voice wavering anxiously despite his attempts to keep a cool demeanor.

 

“Listen, things will change.” Willow assures him, “Whatever you’re feeling right now won’t last. Things change.”

 

“Yeah, things change.” Abraham rolls his eyes and gives Willow a condescending smile before continuing,  “Like you’re here, for a change.”

 

Hurt flashes in Willow’s eyes and she hesitates, trying to find the right words. “Things are changing for me, too. I’m… doing some accounting on some personal issues. You’re important to me, Abe.”

 

“Just because you killed my dad doesn’t mean you get to be him.”

 

“Abraham.” Hannah snaps, leaning behind Willow to give him a stern look.

 

“I feel responsible for you.” Willow says, pausing and looking over to Hannah for approval before looking back to Abraham and continuing, “We both do.”

 

“I know what people think I did. They’re wrong. Why can’t I just tell them they’re wrong?” Abraham goes silent for a moment, lost in his thoughts, before he continues. “I don’t want to go to the BAU. I don’t want to be reminded of that night. Besides, your boss is... kind of a bitch.”

 

Willow cracks an amused smile at that and pats the boy’s leg over the blanket covering him comfortingly.

 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

 

Hannah stands from the end of the bed, her hand grazing along Willow’s thigh when she does. She turns back to face Abraham and raises her eyebrows as if she knows what he’s hiding. “Yet.”

* * *

 

** BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS UNIT HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA **

 

“Mister Hobbs, I want you to tell me if you can identify this man as the same man who attacked you, Doctor Bloom, and Doctor Lecter in your home.”

 

Jacqueline stands on the opposite side of the gurney from Abraham, looming over the teen. Alan stands next to Abraham, who is still and pale in fear, fighting the urge to flee the room. He takes a deep breath when Jacqueline pulls the white sheet back from the body, folding it at the corpse’s waist and looking at Abraham expectantly.

 

Abraham finally looks down and swallows hard. “Yes, that’s him.” He says flatly, though his eyes are shining and wide in fright.

 

Nicholas Boyle is still recognizable, even after being frozen and thawed over the span of eight weeks. Abraham stares at the man’s face where lesions litter his cheeks and a pink froth has bubbled around his lips, decomposition already setting in. His gaze trails to the long, ugly knife wound in his gut, purple and green around the edges. Abraham can see a rib in the cut where decay has been quicker, but he tears his gaze away as soon as he sees it.

 

Jacqueline analyzes his reaction carefully, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at his simplicity. “I have a few questions I’d like you to answer.”

 

Abraham nods slowly and looks between Alan and Jacqueline nervously.

 

“Have you seen this man since the night of the alleged attack?” Jacqueline asks and Abraham anxiously fidgets with his hands, holding the woman’s gaze before dropping it back down to the corpse on the gurney in front of them.

 

“Could you cover him up?” Abraham asks in a small voice.

 

Jacqueline keeps a stern stance, refusing to lighten up even when the teen seems to be bothered. “I need you to answer the question, Mister Hobbs.”

 

Abraham stays quiet, and when Jacqueline doesn’t move to cover the man’s body back up, Alan leans over and takes the sheet himself. He covers the body quickly and looks up at Jacqueline with thin patience, placing a hand on Abraham’s back protectively.

 

“No… I haven’t seen him since the attack.”

 

“Nicholas Boyle was gutted with a hunting knife. Your father taught you how to do that, didn’t he?”

 

“Jacqueline, I won’t be a party to-” Alan begins to cut in, but he’s interrupted when Jacqueline looks at him and snaps.

 

“Then leave. You’re here by invitation and courtesy. Don’t interrupt again, Doctor Bloom.”

 

Alan takes half a step back, angered by this. He goes silent but doesn’t move to leave, instead rubbing small circles on the teenager’s back in an offer for physical comfort.

 

“He did, but I don’t have anything to do with this.”

 

“You don’t know anything about his death?”

 

“No. All I know is he was trying to kill me. He… He thought I had something to do with his brother’s death. I was terrified. I thought ‘Fuck, I really am going to die in this house after all.’ Doctor Bloom and Doctor Lecter saved my life and he ran away towards the woods.”

 

Jacqueline raises her eyebrows, surprised at the boy’s honesty. She looks up at Alan expectantly, but he only offers a hard stare in return. She sighs, looking away when she’s refused a response. Her gaze returns to Abraham, softer than before.

 

“Abraham, you’re free to go. I’ll have Price drive you back to the hospital. Thank you for cooperating, I know this can be tough.”

 

Abraham looks at Alan, who nods once at him, and he turns to leave the room. As soon as Abraham turns the corner, Alan snaps back around to face Jacqueline, waiting for her next remark.

 

“Alan, do you believe this kid?”

 

Alan sighs, “I think Abraham Hobbs is damaged. There’s something he’s using every ounce of his power to keep hidden, but it’s unrelated to Nicholas Boyle’s death.”

 

Jacqueline raises an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure of him?”

 

“Because any reservations I have about my patient don’t extend to Hannah Lecter. Hannah has no reason to lie about any of this.”

 

Alan huffs as he turns to walk away, his shoes clicking on the tiled floors as he tries to contain his anger. Jacqueline sighs, covering her face with her hands and exhales deeply, trying to piece together everything in her head.

 

The lights are low in the morgue, all the lab workers having gone home for the evening. Willow stands in front of the metal examination table in the center of the room, staring down at Nicholas Boyle’s rotting corpse, eyebrows scrunched in thought. She looks at the bloodless gash in his chest and closes her eyes, pendulum swinging back and forth behind her eyelids.

 

_The sliding glass doors at the side of the living room open and a cool breeze makes Abraham shiver and he looks up where Willow stands in the doorway. He goes stiff instinctively, eyes wide, and Willow holds her hands up in mock surrender._

_“I’m not going to hurt you, don’t… I got to talk to someone. I didn’t kill your friend, I swear.”_

_Abraham bolts in the direction of the kitchen and Willow chases him, grabbing him by his shoulders and spinning him around, slamming him against the wall by the fireplace. Abraham opens his mouth to scream but Willow covers his mouth with her hand._

_“Just listen to me! I didn’t-”_

_Willow stiffens suddenly and goes silent, mouth hanging open in shock as she looks down to where Abraham had plunged a knife into her abdomen. He pulls it down, gutting him in one swift motion just like his father taught him. Willow stumbles back, pale and glossy eyed as she falls forward and her entrails slap against the floor with an awful wet sound._

 

Willow opens her eyes and she’s back in reality, alone in the dark morgue with Nicholas Boyle’s body, the reality of his fate dawning on her.

 

* * *

 

**HANNAH LECTER’S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND**

 

Willow stares off distantly, sitting across from Hannah with a forlorn expression. The room is silent aside from the storm outside making rain hit the windows and the only light comes from the few lamps scattered around the room, dimly illuminating Hannah’s features. Willow’s gaze drops to the floor and she speaks for the first time since her arrival nearly twenty minutes ago.

 

“Abraham Hobbs killed Nicholas Boyle.”

 

Hannah’s quiet for a long moment before she responds flatly, “Yes, I know.”

 

Willow rests her right elbow on the arm of the chair and leans her chin on her fist, exhaustion taking over her. She holds Hannah’s gaze as she speaks, her typically leveled voice wavering on emotion. “Tell me how you know.”

 

Hannah inhales deeply through her nose and sighs, sitting back in her chair to prepare for the conversation ahead. “I helped him dispose of the body.”

 

“Evidently not well enough.”

 

“I assuming you haven’t told Jacqueline Crawford in hopes that it wasn’t true.” Hannah pauses, seeming to hold back a snappy remark. “Now you know the truth.”

 

“Do I?”

 

“Everything you know about that night is true.” Hannah uncrosses her legs and sits up straight, looking Willow in the eyes. “Except the end. Nicholas Boyle attacked us. The only crime that Abraham committed was in self defense and I lied about it.”

 

“Why?”

 

Hannah stands, flashing Willow a stern look as she turns to walk towards her desk. “You know why. The world wants to destroy Abraham for his father’s wrongdoings. He’s the next best subject for a story. That’s what Freddy Lounds would write next.” She traces her fingers along the edge of her desk as she scans the surface to find where she last left her drawing materials. As soon as it catches her eye, she grabs the scalpel from it’s place inconspicuously and continues. “Abraham is no more of a killer than you are.”

 

“It’s not our place to decide.”

 

“Whose, if not ours?” Hannah walks to the side of her desk closer to Willow, scalpel pressed into her left palm. “Who knows Abraham and the burden he bears better than you and I? We’re his mothers now. It’s our duty to serve him better than Garret Jacob Hobbs ever could.”

 

Hannah slowly walks to stand behind Willow’s chair. “If you go to Jacqueline, then Abraham’s future is ruined. We must tell no one if he is to receive the life he deserves.”

 

Willow nods her head in understanding, though it seems that she’s not even fully aware of her movement. Hannah runs her right hand along the top of the chair, dipping down to let her nails lightly graze against Willow’s throat as she does so.

 

“Do I need to call my lawyer?” Willow threatens and looks up to the older woman, tensing under her touch. Their eye contact lingers for a long moment before Willow breaks it as Hannah moves her hand away from her throat.

 

Hannah’s right hand trails down to rest on Willow’s shoulder as she leans down to be closer to her. “What we’re doing here is the right thing, Willow.” She carefully tucks a dark strand of hair behind her ear, tilting her head to the side and letting her fingers go back to her throat, feeling her rapid pulse. “For our dear Abraham.”


	5. Note from Authors

This hasn't been updated since February, and I apologize sincerely to those who have been following this story since chapter one. This will not be updated anytime soon, and may never be updated. When I say this, I'm speaking for all authors on AO3 who have given up stories or writing all together.

 

Comments will get you more chapters. Feedback and sharing stories you love with friends and giving kudos gets you more chapters.

 

My girlfriend and I have felt  _extremely_ discouraged from continuing this story because, honestly, only 26 kudos and 8 comments (most of which are replies from @toules and I) are simply just not enough motivation to continue. We have put a ton of time and effort into studying each of these characters from the books, movies, and TV show, and we have worked incredibly hard to develop them and make them our own. After putting in a full month of both of us working every single day into every chapter, we're exhausted by the time it's published and seeing poorly written, out of character Hannigram smut get 500+ kudos and 50+ comments is really upsetting to us, because of all the hard work we've put into this.

 

So, again, I apologize to any readers who have followed this story and have anticipated an update. If you enjoyed our writing style you can follow both of us in the event we will write other smaller stories. As for this one, as much as it hurts me to abandon this, neither Sophie nor I feel very motivated to continue.

 

Thank you for reading and understanding.


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